


The Hawk and the Wolf

by Fledhyris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Animal Transformation, Baby is a horse, Drama, Happy Ending, Hawk!Sam, M/M, Romance, Wincest Reverse Bang (Supernatural), Witchcraft, Wolf!Dean, fairytale, set in England, short novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledhyris/pseuds/Fledhyris
Summary: Two brothers, cursed for loving one another a little too closely, wander as knights errant, together yet forever apart. Their luck turns when Dean encounters a young thief, Garth, running from Winchester Cathedral with a stolen book. They have just one chance to meet the conditions for the spell to be lifted; will they win their hearts’ desire or be doomed to live out the rest of their lives under a cruel enchantment?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 81
Kudos: 124
Collections: Wincest Reverse Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Captivating art by Kelios. [Please visit her LJ](https://kelios.livejournal.com/88409.html) to leave feedback! Her beautiful images sang to me and brought this story to life.
> 
> Loosely based on the film Ladyhawke (1985) with Matthew Broderick, Rutger Hauer & Michelle Pfeiffer.  
> Also strongly influenced by Arthurian legend, Robin Hood and Brother Cadfael, my principal sources of historic fantasy growing up. As historically accurate as I could make it, with some notable exceptions to the British monarchy and the premise that magic, and monsters, are real. I tried to strike a balance between readable and Chaucerian English, so it is a little flowery in places. I gave Azazel his actor’s name - tweaked for the time period - because he isn’t an actual demon, so the name would have been anachronistic, but he is in all other respects himself.
> 
> All my thanks to my amazing beta, thanks_tacos, who is one in a million and helped me through this epic in so many ways; to the talented Kelios for working with me without complaint as my medieval setting required extra touches; and to the lovely mod bluefire986 on LJ for their patience and support as I battled to get this done! Couldn't have achieved it without any of you. <3

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063245352/in/album-72157714923289397/)

Dean sat cross legged in a wooded clearing, sharpening his sword and appreciating the warm spring sunshine that poured through the new leaves like a benediction straight from Heaven. Baby grazed nearby, snuffling and champing the young grass in horsey content. From far above came a high, keening mew and he looked up, squinting into the brightness of a cloudless sky. The hawk hovered, an arrowed speck against the blue, intent on some infinitesimal movement down among the grass stems. A mouse, perhaps, disturbed by Baby’s foraging; or even a beetle. Its eyes were a hundred times keener than his own, he knew from long companionship, though he’d never given much thought to falconry, before…

Another spring, long years gone by, from a childhood as innocent and carefree as it could be in a family ravaged by a mother’s loss. He is running through the castle courtyard with his little brother, laughing, playing tag; leaping over and through the bustle of workmen, good natured curses ringing in their ears as their boyish exuberance threatens to topple hay bales, a stack of earthenware, trestles of newly cast tools and horseshoes. They race for the postern gate, burst out of the castle and spring like fawns into the surrounding forest. They are truants of the classroom, should be studying right now with Pastor Jim; Latin, dry and dusty as the tomes he eternally peruses, like a kindly, wizened troll peering through his half-moon spectacles and tutting gently at their antics. Dean has no time for Latin when the sun is shining and the green woods beckon. He wants to run and play and hunt; he has promised to teach Sam how to shoot a bow and Sam, usually their tutor’s darling, is stricken with the same itchy zeal to be out of doors, away from the cool confines of the castle library, to go a-Maying with the older brother whom he worships; an errant knight and his eager squire.

It is a glorious afternoon, golden-green and illicit, imprinting indelibly on Dean’s tender young mind as one of the defining moments of youth. They stay out well into the dusky evening, sampling the forest’s delights, enwrapped in each other’s company. There is nothing new in that, but out here, truly alone together, away from the well meant bustle and scolding and scheduling of attendant adults, he tastes the true freedom of getting to be oneself like a stolen sip of one of their father’s fine foreign wines. Being himself, but not by himself; no loner by nature, Dean would always crave company, but is perfectly content to find it in Sammy, the treasured younger sibling he nurtures and protects as fiercely as a mother lion her cub.

Green and gold played through his memory now as the sun beamed upon his bare head, recalling the thrill of childishly daring exploits in a young world full of promise: happier times, cherished moments of time spent with the person he loved - loves - best in all the world. Time past, and impossible to recapture or reproduce. Sorrow arced across the memories like the slash of lightning, as reminiscence led with fateful inevitability to his current situation: lonely and alone, cut off from his brother as surely as though all the lands of the Crusades stood between them. 

A cry pierced his introspection as keenly as the stab of that lightning’s strike, its wild loneliness echoing the sudden melancholy of his mood. Harsh and thin yet roughly musical, like the drone of a split reed pipe, it summoned him back to the here-and-now as surely as a call to arms. He looked up again, shading his eyes from the light, as the hawk dropped out of the blue like a thunderbolt, plunging with deadly accuracy towards the clearing and its spotted meal.

The soft thump of talons encircling their prey like a trap springing closed; the whuff of feathers as the great wings arched up and outwards, countering the sudden descent; the shrill squeal, cut short, as some small creature met with death among the less than concealing thicket of grass blades. The hawk turned its head to look at him, fierce eyes blank and golden as the sun, and it opened its beak to scream at him; in victory, or in warning, because he was too close?

Dean laughed, and sat back on his haunches to watch the bird.

“Don’t yell at me,” he chided fondly. “I don’t want your mouse, or whatever it is you’ve caught. Times will be pretty rough, before I have to depend on you for my dinner. Personally, I’m looking forward to the last of that veal pie and the wedge of cheese you think you’ve hidden so cleverly. Don’t worry though, I’ll leave you enough; one mouse probably won’t see you through the night, will it, little hawk?”

The bird turned away as though it could understand him, or was satisfied that he posed no threat to its new-caught meal. Dean continued to watch as the bright, curved beak slashed and stabbed between its feet, ripping up scarlet ribbons of flesh from the hapless rodent, gulping them down with unthinking, animal satisfaction in its kill.

He refused to name the bird; kept shut and locked the treacherous door that opened on the terrible, tragic countenance of truth. The hawk was his companion now, so be it; no point in dwelling on what might have been, on what had been so cruelly taken. To think of it in any terms that brought to mind that lost companion of his boyhood was to welcome grief back into his heart, as much a self-disservice as it would be to stick the blade of his knife into his own throat.

This was his life now: the roaming vagrancy of the lone hunter, no company but his horse and his hawk, combing the countryside for work that would put food in his belly even as it salvaged some small scrap of comfort, slaking the merest edge of his thirst for vengeance.

For vengeance was what drove Dean now, in this new life of hand to mouth existence, a hired blade, scourge of the monsters that lurked in the forest depths and preyed on the ragged outskirts of civilisation. Vengeance, not upon the creatures he hunted, but upon the one who had taken his brother; taken Sammy, and left him with this sword-swift, razor-winged beast as loyal and dumb as his horse.

Whether it would deliver back his brother or forever seal the curse, Dean neither knew nor cared; revenge was the bright thread of his days, pulling him on like a lodestone, the only emotion left to stir his battered heart. There was a special arrow in his quiver, fletched with the hawk’s feathers and marked with the name of its intended quarry, and that name he did not refuse to utter, savouring the rasping syllables as they rolled upon his tongue like the ripe flesh being gobbled up into the hawk’s eager beak.

Alastair, Bishop of Winchester; their family nemesis.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	2. Chapter 2

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50062991026/in/album-72157714923289397/)

Sparks from the campfire danced up into the night sky like fettered stars suddenly released to seek their brethren. Sam followed them with his gaze, wishing for his own release and reunion. Wish upon a falling star… but as the errant motes swirled into inky blackness, dissolving into the cold glitter of the constellations, no tell-tale streak of a comet’s tail stirred the sky for him to entreat. Besides, it was only a foolish rumour for children and peasants; they may not have been raised at court or as wise in politics as their noble peers, but their education had been second to none and Sam was fully aware - quite opposed to the majority of the ignorant populace - that no sentient spirit animated the twinkling lights of Heaven’s vault. If God deemed it necessary, on occasion, to send one of their number hurtling to earth like an ember to be quenched on contact with cold clay, that was His ineffable business. Sam could wish until his heart burst, but the star wouldn’t answer, and by the number of his unheeded prayers, neither would God Himself.

He sighed and brought his gaze back to earth and the glowing flames. Lifted his portion of food and chewed, gulped, then sighed again at how quickly it disappeared. Time for Dean to go in search of supplies. It galled Sam to be so dependent but there was really nothing he could do: the markets were shuttered fast by sundown and Sam was as much a prisoner of the night as the stars he watched. He could visit a tavern and buy himself a bowl of stew, but he didn’t like to be around people. He stood out, both for his size and the air of breeding which set him apart from common folk no matter how dusty and worn his garments. They were wary around him, distrustful, and he felt awkward and shy, as though they could discern his secret just by looking at him. 

It didn’t help that he was so much bigger than his brother, either; he had an appetite to match his frame, and though Dean was scrupulously fair in dividing their rations, his portion never seemed quite enough. Besides, Dean had… other means of augmenting his diet. Sam did, too, but it was hardly likely his daytime kills could support such a great disparity in size. Sometimes he would try to squirrel away the odd morsel, here and there; a spare apple, a hunk of cheese, a dry heel of bread. But there really were few hiding places among their meagre belongings, and he couldn’t risk storing anything outside the saddlebags when Dean might, at any moment, take it upon himself to move to a new campsite. 

It wasn’t that he went hungry, not exactly; Dean wouldn’t do that to him. But he had the suspicion, knowing his brother; or at least knowing what he had been like, in their younger days; that he took a perverse delight in ferreting out Sam’s secret stash and claiming his share, so that Sam could never rely on that extra mouthful to eke out the long, lonely nights. He had never been so obsessed with eating when growing up; Dean was the one with the appetite, almost a glutton in his love of food. Perhaps it was the loss of control, the fact that it fell to Dean to procure their provisions, with the younger brother forced to depend on his charity. 

He wasn’t being fair, he knew it, overthinking the situation with a brooding pessimism that made it seem as though he might go short when rationally, he knew he had plenty. It was just that he had been looking forward to that last wedge of cheese, had left Dean ample pie in recompense; Dean preferred the pie! But, typical of the older brother, Sam could keep no secrets from him. In a way, he supposed it was at least something; some shred of human interaction, affectionate sibling pranking harking to a normality they couldn’t have. He knew by it that Dean was at least thinking about him, taking the trouble to second-guess his motives and behaviour. The thought cheered Sam and he smiled, thinking back on other roguish exploits. It made him wonder what Dean got up to nowadays, how he interacted with the people he met. Sam met so few, himself; his time was the night, when most other decent folk were shut away indoors, safe from the monsters that lurked in the darkness…

Thinking about monsters, Sam heard a rustle in the bushes off to his right and was instantly alert. Cautiously, he drew his sword from its sheath, the cold edge glittering faintly in the firelight. It was etched with runes, powerful against the creatures they hunted for a living. It had been enchanted by a witch - Ruby - for the price of one night in her bed. Sam had acquiesced, but not willingly. She was comely enough, for a woman; but, even besides the fact she was a witch, Sam’s fancy just didn’t turn that way. He had spent the night wracked with unease, feeling unaccountably as though his actions were a betrayal, though the spelled sword would be of immense assistance. Ruby had seemed happy, though. He suspected his reluctance fed her ego, knowing she had this power to coerce; and she had had to use her spells to help him to the task, applying an unguent…

Not a good memory, and he shook it off now as he watched the bushes intently, sword at the ready. Its price had been steep, but proven over time. There were creatures out there that laughed at the bite of iron, and he had his silver knife for just such, but a knife was for close work and a sword was better, before you knew what you were facing. It had never let him down yet. Another rustle, and a low growl; the firelight gleamed from a pair of eyes deep in the undergrowth; yet the horse, standing quietly with her head down not ten feet away, showed no signs of alarm. Sam relaxed, lowering the sword, as he realised what manner of beast skulked among the trees.

“Come on out,” he called softly. “I know it’s you, silly. Come to share the last of the warmth before the fire dies down?”

He would welcome the wolf’s company, but he had little hope of it; the beast was shy, not so much of him but of the leaping flames. When he lay down to sleep, as the fire dwindled to glowing embers, it might slink over to curl up at his feet; or it might spend the night off in the forest, hunting. It was a worry; anything could happen, an altercation with other wolves, or worse; a skinner’s trap. But he had no mastery over the animal, it was no tame dog to be leashed at his side - and even if it would submit, he couldn’t do that; not to him. It was enough; had to be enough; that the wolf never strayed too far, seemed to circle their campsite and always returned by dawn’s fateful light.

This night, however, it had returned much earlier; the night was young and Sam had not even begun to yawn. Perhaps something had spooked it..? Or perhaps, like Sam, it was just lonely - wolves ran in packs, and though he was a poor substitute for another wolf, Sam was all this one had. He laid the sword on the ground and raised his hands in a demonstration of peace. The wolf must know he would never harm it, but it was wary, skittish as any natural beast.

“Come,” he called again, “stop pretending you don’t know me and be sociable for a change. It’s the least you could do, after stealing my cheese. You can lie down here behind me, away from the fire, and I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time, there were two brothers… Would you like that?”

A pause, another soft growl and then the bushes parted and the wolf came slinking out, something clutched in its jaws that obscured the elegant lines of its muzzle. It made a wide circuit of the fire and went to stand by his bed roll, waiting. When Sam turned to look, it dumped its prize unceremoniously right in the middle of the blanket. It was a rabbit, broken neck lolling grotesquely to the side. The wolf sat back on its haunches and opened its mouth, tongue flopping out in a lazy grin, clearly pleased with itself.

“Is that for me?” Sam wondered aloud. The wolf sometimes brought him gifts; not often, and only, he suspected, when it had fed itself, so to come back so early with what must be its first catch seemed unlikely to be meant for sharing. But the wolf just sat there, ignoring the rabbit, its slanted gaze never leaving Sam’s face.

Slowly, he leaned towards the bed roll, reaching for the rabbit; carefully, watching the wolf minutely, ready to snatch his hand back if it gave the smallest sign of objection. It did not react, and he picked the rabbit up. It was still warm.

“Thanks, friend,” Sam murmured with a twist of a smile. “You feeling guilty about the cheese, huh? So much it even prompted your inner wolf to go hunting for the poor, useless human who can’t fend for himself?”

The wolf yawned widely and lay down, settling its head on its front paws to regard Sam from red-lit eyes. He busied himself preparing the rabbit, skinning it with his utility knife (not the silver blade) and spitting it through with a long stick to roast over the fire. He threw the guts and other innards over to the wolf, who startled momentarily, then set about chomping them down with relish. As he worked, Sam chattered quietly to his companion, regaling the animal with his promised story. It didn’t matter that the wolf wouldn’t understand; he was speaking for his own benefit, recalling memories like buried treasure to be examined in the light of the flames.

“Once upon a time, there were two brothers, sons of a great knight in the king’s service. Their mother had died in childbirth and they were all their father had left to cherish in the world. Because of that, he kept them close, didn’t send them out to foster with another noble as custom dictated. They ran a little wild, with scant supervision, growing up with only each other’s company; and they were inseparable, even though four years lay between them. 

“The younger brother followed the elder everywhere, looked up to him, adored him; he was his hero, the knight to his squire. The elder liked to enforce his position; he was bossy, and demanding, and sometimes treated his little brother like a servant…” Here, Sam smiled fondly to himself, “but he always looked out for him, and if any of the children of the local townspeople tried to cause trouble, they had Dean of Winchester to reckon with and would consider themselves lucky to go home with a sore head.

“As they grew older, the brothers… maybe grew a little too close. They had each other, and they didn’t see the need for anyone else; why should they? There were no women in their lives, not close, not since their mother had died; and their father did not encourage them to mingle with the commoners, though he was a just and fair lord and treated his people well.

“One day, the brothers were fooling around together as they often did, just a light hearted tumble in the hayloft; but their father came out to tend to his horse, as he liked to take a hand in such matters. He discovered them and… and was wroth. He was angry with the brothers, but mostly he was angry at himself, for ‘allowing such a situation to develop right under his nose’, and he vowed that he would do something about it.

“At first, the brothers were alarmed, thinking that they would be separated; sent off to different households in disgrace. But despite his perceived failure, their father couldn’t bear to be parted from them, so he tried a different solution. He went to visit the bishop, because he was afraid his sons had sinned against God and he sought both advice and atonement. But the bishop…”

Sam paused in his tale, his face set and grim, and the movements of his knife became short and hostile, as though his muscles imagined enacting revenge upon the man responsible for his fate, instead of dressing the rabbit for his supper. He went on shortly, as the wolf stretched out by the bed and watched him silently, seeming to pay him full attention though his words surely meant little. 

“The Bishop of Winchester was not such a stranger to sin himself, and steeped in far worse than the loving, if wayward, antics of the brothers. There were rumours that he called upon dark powers, and did service to the enemies of the Church in return for personal gain. He saw a chance to ingratiate himself with the new queen, the king’s second bride, Lilith; for she and Sir John did not see eye to eye. He was becoming a thorn in her side, a wedge between her and the husband she wanted to corrupt, for Sir John was a faithful retainer and a good friend to King Robert, and had a great deal of influence at court. 

“The bishop told Sir John that he had a surefire way to force the brothers apart, without any need for physical separation. The good knight went on his way light of heart, never suspecting the curse about to fall upon his family, for he was not one to put stock in the whispers of the peasant folk and considered a bishop above reproach.

“But the evil bishop worked a dark magic and the brothers… they were transformed…” Sam choked, swallowing the bitter truth he couldn’t bear to voice aloud. “They were separated,” he continued, his voice gone flat and toneless as he fought to contain his emotions, “not in space but in time: held apart by the cycle of the sun, separate as day and night, never to meet again where both could hold out a hand or speak a comforting word…”

He turned to look at his wolfish companion. “But you don’t need me to elaborate that part of the story, do you,” he said softly. The wolf whined as if in answer, half raising its head with flattened ears.

“I know, I know,” Sam chuckled. “‘You talk too much; get on with preparing the rabbit I brought you.’ Well, I am; I can do both at once, you know! So, where was I…”

He turned back to his task and the wolf settled back to its silent, faithful vigil.

“Sir John was aghast, but he had no proof of what Alastair had done; and no bodies - or missing children - to earn the sympathy of the court. His children were whole and well, if only half the time; and if he had felt bad at the thought another might stumble upon their indiscretions, it was a thousand times worse worrying what people would say if they knew about the curse. He would be a laughing stock of the court; the king would not permit his sons to inherit; whoever heard of a knight who roamed as an animal between the rising and setting of the sun?

“So the father, helpless and blaming himself, finally realising the truth of the rumours he had ignored to his children’s peril, stayed away from court and the king, as no doubt the cunning bishop had intended. He meant to shut himself and his sons away from the world, but the brothers communicated secretly, writing in a hidden journal. They each heard their father’s confession as he wept into his winecup, lamenting the absence of one or the other son at every meal. They made a pact to seek out the evil bishop, to have their revenge if they could; but above all, to overturn the curse and be reunited, if they could but find a way.”

Sam finished fixing the rabbit over the fire on a makeshift frame of sticks, then turned to regard the wolf, arms clasped about his knees and head atop his folded arms much as the wolf’s head lay along its paws.

“And that’s where we are in the story still,” he sighed, “no nearer to finding how to break the curse, and unable to challenge the bishop alone, without evidence to back our claim for justice. We’d be thrown into prison, or outlawed, for aggression against such a high authority within the Church; and Alastair has the queen’s ear, and therefore the king’s. There’s nothing we can do, unless we can find proof somehow of his dealings with black magic. Together, we might manage to pull off some kind of investigation, but alone and racing against the sun… the odds are stacked against us, aren’t they, my furry friend?”

The wolf, of course, made no answer. As though aware that the story had finished, it closed its eyes and gave every appearance of having fallen asleep. Sam, not for the first time, had to fight the impulse to reach out and scratch behind its ears as he would a dog. Partly, he was worried that the wolf might rebuff such over familiarity; partly, he was worried that it wouldn’t. He missed Dean deeply, like a wound to his heart that never healed, and he couldn’t quite reconcile their former closeness with forming so affectionate an attachment to an animal. It just wouldn’t be the same; he would miss him all the more; he wanted his brother back, whole and human.

Sam sighed, turned his attention to the sizzling rabbit on its spit. Ate his supper, and reflected that surely something of the man must remain, however deeply buried, if the wolf could bring him food. On the other hand, it could just be the natural instinct of a pack animal to care for its own. There was no way to tell; they had established very early on, via the journal, that neither had more than a fleeting recollection of their actions, much less their thoughts and feelings, while transformed. They behaved towards one another much as any dumb animal companion might; loyal and trusting but with no signs of higher intelligence.

He checked on the horse, rummaged in the saddle bags to pull out the journal, and a quill and ink. ‘Thanks for the rabbit,’ he penned for Dean to read in the morning. ‘More than a fair exchange for the cheese.’ No point in mentioning the story until one of them had something to add to move the tale along. It was growing late, and he was tired; as if it wasn’t enough to cheat him of the day, his time at night was limited too, as he was forced to make up for sleep the hawk presumably never took. Sometimes he was more active, setting out on the trail of some monster they took turns hunting, following his brother’s notes from the appeals he heard from villagers. At the moment though, they were camped not far from home, too close to the city’s environs for there to be much monster activity, and so there was little for Sam to while away the time. Hence his regaling a wolf with a bedtime story. He stretched himself out on the strip of padding and old woollen blanket that he used as a bed; clear sky, little chance of rain tonight; and joined his brother, the wolf, in sleep.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	3. Chapter 3

Garth wasn’t having the best day. In fact things were spiralling rapidly out of control and he had the panicked feeling that this time, he might actually end up dead. Or worse. Because being dead was almost certainly preferable to languishing in Crowley’s dungeon for the rest of his (short, and miserable) life, for the unforgivable crime of stealing from the Church. In short, maybe, not to put too fine a point on it, he had screwed up.

Too late to do anything about it now though. He was scrambling as fast as he could down a steep, wooded hillside, ducking and weaving among the trees in a hopeless attempt to evade pursuit. At least it wasn’t the Sheriff’s men who were after him; it was the captain of the bishop’s own guard and two of his men, and while Garth was under no illusion that they would treat him any more kindly than Crowley’s guardsmen, he thanked his lucky stars that they didn’t carry crossbows.

Unfortunately, they did have dogs. Big dogs. Huge, snarling, salivating nightmares of dogs that were fed far less frequently than their bulk suggested was necessary, and that clearly intended to make up the omission with Garth’s tender flesh. He was pretty confident he could outrun the guards, but the dogs were a problem.

It was while craning his neck to check how closely the dogs were gaining that he caught his foot against a protruding tree root and took an inelegant and painful tumble to the ground. He rolled a few yards further down the slope before fetching up hard against a tree trunk, dazed and disoriented. He found that he could only lie there, gaping in terror, as the lead hound leapt down and crouched over him, spittle showering his face from its great jaws as it snarled, savage eyes ablaze. He wanted to close his eyes, but a dread fascination to witness his own fate had hold of him, so he didn’t.

Which meant he was a witness, instead, to the arrow which appeared out of nowhere, suddenly embedding itself in the neck of the slavering animal, which collapsed onto its side with a high pitched yelp and went still. The arrow, he noted inconsequentially, was fletched with pigeon feathers, in a distinct banding of white and grey, dark at the tips. Even lying, winded, at the foot of a tree with a dead dog across his legs, Garth was a keen observer and couldn’t help taking in these sorts of details. It was what had got him into this trouble in the first place.

He watched now, with an almost detached sense of curiosity, as two more arrows unerringly struck the following hounds, and an eerie hush descended on the forest as their furious baying ceased. The sudden silence was broken by a man’s voice, gravelly and abrupt, but not unkind.

“You going to lie there all day?” asked the man, directly behind Garth. Hands clamped under his arms and hauled him upright, the dead dog rolling off with a thud into the bracken.

“If you can walk, we should get out of here,” the man continued, steadying Garth with one hand as he slapped at his tunic with the other, brushing off woodland debris and checking roughly but with the ease of practice for broken bones.

“I’m fine,” Garth managed to gasp, jerking away before his saviour found the book huddled close to his chest. “I’m very grateful for the assistance, and please don’t think me rude, but I think we’d have a better chance of evading pursuit if we went our separate ways, so let me…”

“Not so fast,” his rescuer broke in with a knowing smirk, and he laid a forestalling hand on Garth’s arm. “Those dogs belong to the Guard of Winchester Cathedral, and not that I mind shouldering the blame for their deaths, but I’d at least like to know why. Anyone on bad terms with Captain Lehner - well, it’s all the more likely they’d find sympathy with me, know what I’m saying?”

Garth hesitated, but time was running out; he could hear the crashing approach of the men through the underbrush, and any moment now they would find the dogs and have even more reason to take their ire out on his hide. He needed to get away, and now was not the time to argue with a man who was armed and dangerous, and could in fact prove a friend.

As he followed, he had plenty of opportunity to study the man, who was tall, fair haired and strikingly handsome. His finely chiselled features were just rugged enough, and with a day’s shadow of beard growth, to prevent him from being pretty, but there was nothing girlish about his well built frame or the powerful, slightly bowed legs of a seasoned horseman. His clothes were of good quality, though serviceable and worn, nothing too ostentatious; but though the bow proclaimed him a huntsman, his leather hauberk and the sword he carried at his hip marked him for a nobleman. Garth wondered just who he had run into, and what his dealings were with the Sheriff - and for that matter, the Bishop - of Winchester. One interesting aspect of the stranger was the heavy, leather glove he wore on his left hand; a falconer’s glove, if Garth did not mistake it. Warrior, huntsman and falconer, all in one? And where, then, was the bird?

He was soon to find out. It was impossible to be both swift and silent in the ensnaring arms of the forest, and after some muffled shouting which suggested the dogs had been discovered, the guards renewed their chase with a vengeance. As they had no need to cover their movements, they were gaining on their quarry. Suddenly, there came a shrill shriek, the screech of a bird of prey; and the hoarser cries of a man under savage assault.

The huntsman laughed low in his throat. “Attaboy,” he murmured. Then, aside to Garth, “That should hold them back a bit. Hard going through the woods, with a faceful of hawk every time the trees thin out. But I’d better call him off, don’t want him getting hurt, and just the threat will slow them enough, keep them peering up at the sky as much as at our trail.” He gave a long, low whistle to summon his bird, and moments later Garth heard it overhead as it gave voice to another piercing call, passing them above the trees.

He was just starting to wonder how much time the hawk had bought them, and what difference it could make in the face of the captain’s persistence, when they broke through the cover of trees into a small clearing; and there in the middle, grazing with its reins dangling, was a large black horse, clearly a warhorse from its splendid physique. The knight (because a man with a horse like that, and a sword to boot, had surely to be a knight) did not give Garth a chance to balk or ask questions. He grasped the reins, murmuring under his breath to soothe the skittish animal, then hoisted Garth into the saddle before he could resist and vaulted up behind him with one fluid movement. With a flourish of the reins, the horse was away, twisting through the trees with accomplished ease, and the captain and his men were left cursing and shaking their fists in the dust of its hooves. Looking back over his shoulder, Garth thought he saw the leader wipe a bright streak of red from his cheek, and he winced. That injury would not be so easily forgiven; the theft had now become personal.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	4. Chapter 4

His rescuer, the man told him, once they had ridden clear of the trees and were making their way sedately along a woodside track, was named Dean; though no more about his heritage seemed forthcoming. He did admit to being a knight, of sorts; knight errant, he described it, with what sounded like self-deprecation to Garth’s ears, a wandering sword for hire who made his living by hunting the creatures of darkness which lurked on the outskirts of civilisation and preyed upon men as wolves beset sheep. The hawk, which he did not name, kept pace overhead, turning wide, lazy circles as it scoured the countryside below for signs of its own prey.

“It’s a well trained bird,” Garth ventured, hoping the compliment might elicit more information about the life of his mysterious benefactor, but Dean just snorted.

“He does his own thing, by and large, heeds me about as much as you might expect; but he knows my whistle, so I’ve little fear of losing him.”

As the day shaded to early evening, Dean began looking around for a suitable place to make camp. Garth, no stranger to straitened circumstances, did not question the decision; doubtless the knight had little enough coin to spare for both of them to room at an inn, and over the afternoon, they had established a wary trust and camaraderie. Garth had thrown his lot in with the wandering hunter, at least for now; he must wait to try and fence his stolen book, since the cathedral servants would be on the lookout - ideally, he would try to sell it in another city, and to accompany an armed traveller suited him well, as Dean would provide safety from brigands and the bishop’s guard both, not to mention the horrors he hunted that would likely consider Garth a tasty snack.

They followed a long and winding track, half overgrown with weeds and brush, which ended at a small, dilapidated freeholding in the woods. The illiterate peasant farmer took one look at Dean and his horse and was overcome, bowing and stretching his face in a blackened, gap toothed grin as he ushered them to an empty barn with a rickety hayloft overhead. The farmer’s wife hovered in the background, seeming shy to the point of fearfulness, and said never a word; but when Dean dug in his purse for a small coin and asked for something to eat, she turned and scuttled off towards the hovel of her home, returning shortly with two steaming bowls of thin barley gruel and a small pitcher of warm, fresh milk. Garth had heard the bleating of goats on their arrival and surmised they were the source. Dean tossed the copper to the woman with an easy smile that spoke volumes; nobly born he might be, but he seemed perfectly at home around these poor folk and there was no trace of arrogance in his bearing as he dealt with them. The farmer’s wife caught the penny in her apron, answered the knight with a hesitant smile of her own, bobbed a curtsey and then turned tail and ran. Seemingly unfazed by such timid behaviour, Dean turned to see to his horse, asking Garth to bring down some hay from the loft.

Garth overheard the other man as he tended the animal and was struck by the endearment he used as he murmured soothingly to it. When he approached the horse with an armful of hay, Garth addressed it himself with a jocular bow.

“Thank you, Sir Horse, for your admirable assistance in escaping the wrath of the clergy. I’m sorry I’ve nothing better to offer than this dry hay; maybe we could prevail on the farmer’s wife for some of her last store of winter apples, if your master would smile at her some more. I feel we should become better acquainted; what is your name, I wonder? Your master calls you Baby, which is well enough for him I’m sure, but I can’t presume to such familiarity. Such a noble steed must have a noble name to match his temperament; Galahad, perhaps? - What’s so funny?” This last he directed at Dean, who was folded over at the waist with not quite silent laughter.

“You,” the hunter managed between gasps of hilarity, wiping his eyes, “with your ‘Sir Horse’ and ‘Galahad’. You might want to check underneath and adjust your expectations; the mare is called Jessamyn, but you’re right about the rest of it. There is no finer horse in all of Christendom.”

Garth gaped, ducked down to squint beneath the horse’s tail and stood straight again, sure that his cheeks were flaming.

“Oh,” he said, “my pardon to Jessamyn! She is such a magnificent animal, I thought her a destrier; no slight to the fairer sex of her race but aren’t they all stallions..?”

Dean chuckled again. “No, not all, though probably most of them; she’s unusual, I’ll grant you that. Her father and mine rode together in the last Crusade and we are just as inseparable. Aren’t we, my baby girl?” He patted the horse on the neck as she nosed at the hay, which Garth was feeding to her absently in little wisps.

“And the hawk,” he thought to check, “that one is a male, is he not? I seem to remember you referring to ‘him’ earlier if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, the hawk’s male,” Dean answered shortly; for some reason, mentioning the bird seemed to put a damper on his good humour, and Garth didn’t like to push for its name.

“You should eat while the gruel’s hot,” Dean suggested, but put his own bowl aside after only a few spoonfuls. 

Garth could happily have eaten both bowls and cast a longing glance at the broth, but Dean, catching his look, said “It’s for later,” in a tone which said plainly that he would not share. Garth shrugged to himself and allowed the man his foibles; he was nobility, after all, however far he had fallen in life, and there was no accounting for them.

Just as he was done eating himself, it began to rain, and the hawk swooped in through the propped open door of the barn and settled on a railing just above the horse’s head. Jessamyn didn’t so much as toss her mane at its sudden arrival. Garth decided to see if he could make friends with the hawk and went over, keeping his movements slow and gentle. It was a handsome creature, its plumage the deep, glossy brown of polished oak above, mottled with creamy white over the chest and belly. Its eyes were fierce and golden and it stared at him with an unnerving intensity, but Garth was not easily intimidated. He held out his hand.

“Hey, handsome fellow,” he crooned, “and what might your name be? Your friend here is Jessamyn, we’ve established, so perhaps you’re the Galahad? Although I think you are more suited to be a Kay. Sir Kay, Lord of the Kestrels - but,” with a sidelong glance at his fellow human, “I know perfectly well you’re not a kestrel, you are far too large. I expect you are the scourge of every warren and covert in the district. And if the two of you don’t mind the addition to your little company, I could join your budding Round Table and be… hmmm… well, there is a Sir Gareth, which requires very little adjustment to fit, if my liege has no objection?”

He glanced again at the knight, who was watching him with one raised eyebrow in a look of tolerant amusement, though not outright derision, which Garth took as encouragement. 

Dean said, “I’m no king, so don’t you ‘my liege’ me, but if you want to pretend we’re in an Arthurian fable, be my guest. It’s a good opportunity to explain what holy quest led you afoul of Winchester’s captain, back there. Spare me no details, please, I’m in the mood for a story.” He folded his arms and grinned expectantly.

Garth knew he’d walked right into a trap and his mind raced to come up with some convincing explanation. To cover for his procrastination, he made further overtures to the hawk, which stared at him frostily and without blinking; as well it might, at least he’d had hay to capture Jessamyn’s interest. To his relief, Dean didn’t seem offended by his silence, instead letting the matter drop with good grace.

“Not willing to talk about it?” he said. “Ah well, we all have our secrets. Though it’s no secret that I consider the Bishop of Winchester a sworn enemy, and whatever your quarrel with him, be sure that I will stand with you, on principle if for no other reason. I’d welcome any lawful excuse to take that man down, and have sworn that if I can’t... exact restitution for his crimes, then I will take vengeance on his very flesh, even if it pulls me down to Hell alongside him.”

Garth looked up, staring, at the bitter resolution in the man’s tone. As he spoke, the knight fingered his sword hilt as though aching to draw it and run someone through. It was clear he spoke no idle threat and there was evil history between him and the bishop which Garth would love to discover, but he knew that he would get nothing without payment in kind, and he was still not quite ready to reveal his own knavery. His was no thrilling tale of wronged heroism; he was merely a thief, and the bishop’s guards had been in pursuit of what rightfully belonged to the cathedral. This Dean might bear no love for the bishop or his men, but he was a knight and seemed an honest man; how could he look leniently on theft from Mother Church? Such behaviour did not suit Sir Gareth of the Round Table, or indeed any squire. Better for Garth to make no mention of his find and try to pawn it at the earliest opportunity. He liked Sir Dean and did not want to disappoint.

As though realising he was under scrutiny, the knight relaxed suddenly, flashing a blinding if somewhat crooked smile, and let his hand drop casually from the pommel of his sword.

“There should be a bit of rabbit in the saddlebags,” he said; “you might get further with him, armed with food. Have a care not to take any liberties though, if you want to keep your nose and fingers intact!”

“Did he really attack the guardsmen?” asked Garth, reminded of the bird’s apparent ferocity.

“Sounded like it,” Dean grinned. “He doesn’t take kindly to people who chase me. I have the feeling someone will be sporting a nice scar or two from that encounter.” He did not sound at all regretful.

Since Garth couldn’t press his companion for further details, they spent the next half hour or so in companionable silence, but for the rain drumming on the roof and the soft sounds of the horse moving around and champing in her makeshift stall. The hawk was as still and quiet as a statue, but it watched Garth the whole time, its eyes like bright twin moons. Dean retrieved a book from his saddlebags and sat cross legged on a hay bale, reading; Garth would have liked to inspect his own book, but dared not take it out, even in a secluded corner, and risk attracting the knight’s attention.

As the evening progressed, the fading light, already dim from the overcast sky, made the barn too gloomy for reading and Dean seemed to become as restless as Garth felt. He tapped his foot on the floor, played with his sword hilt and sucked his teeth, then began whistling tunelessly as he turned his head from side to side, staring out abstractedly at the rain. The hawk turned its gaze from Garth to watch its master, bobbing its head, then gave a sudden, short scream as though irritated by his fidgeting. 

Abruptly, Dean stood, went over to the saddlebags and drew out a short, heavy axe.

“It’s getting dark, will soon be sundown,” he said gruffly. “We need a fire. Take this and go and gather some wood; I’ll find stones to make a firepit. Then I’m… I want to make a check of the area, see that all’s safe; I may not be back for a while… Don’t worry about me, just get the fire going and try to get some sleep. There might…” He stopped, coughed, looked embarrassed - almost furtive. He seemed unable to meet Garth’s questioning gaze. “Another man is likely to come by,” he went on eventually, “he ah - we’re friends; brothers actually - he’ll mind Jessamyn while I’m… away. I’ll be back by morning, though. He’s called Sam; just tell him how you met me and all will be fine. I’m taking the hawk.”

Garth was bursting with questions: where was he going, what was he doing? A quick check, as he first suggested, would not take all night; and he couldn’t be hunting, not with the hawk, not in the dark. The most obvious explanation would be that he was going to some rendezvous, presumably with a woman, but then why take the hawk and not the horse? He would not get very far on foot. And who was this brother to suddenly show up without prior mention? Was he the man Dean was going to meet..? But then why couldn’t he tell Sam about Garth - it sounded as though he would just turn up out of the night, alone, and how did he know where to find them? It made no sense, and although he was reluctant to cause offence, Garth felt he deserved some explanation if he was to be left here waiting for some stranger. If it hadn’t been for the man’s behaviour earlier, when speaking so passionately about the bishop, Garth would have entertained suspicions he was sneaking off to summon his guards and deliver Garth into their hands.

“I don’t understand,” he began, cautiously. “Are you saying you’ll be gone the whole night..? I don’t mind watching the mare, I can look after the bird too; if you don’t trust me yet, I can come with you, there’s no need to send for -”

“Just do as I say,” Dean interrupted him, forcefully. There was an undercurrent to his voice, almost a snarl, and Garth recoiled, a little frightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I don’t mean to presume, it’s just that I don’t know this Sam and nor he me; how can I be sure he won’t -”

“Any friend of mine is a friend of Sam’s,” Dean countered impatiently, “you need have no fear on that score. You can trust him completely; as much as you trust me, at any rate,” and he grinned apologetically. “Look, I’m sorry to be so mysterious, but it’s really nothing for you to worry about. I just have… business to attend to. I cannot explain it, but if you want to stay in my company, you will need to accept things as they are and not ask too many questions. Do we understand one another?”

It was the downside of his curiosity, Garth reflected, that he did not immediately take his leave of this strange knight and his forbidden secrets; who knew what trouble he was getting himself into, after all, the man was a self professed enemy of the most powerful clergyman in the city! But he couldn’t go now; he wanted to find out more about Dean’s history, why he hated the bishop so much. He was sure this nightly excursion had something to do with it; he was probably going to reconnoitre; perhaps the horse would be too conspicuous, entering the city by night. A man could climb stealthily over a wall where a horse would have to enter by the gates and raise questions with the city watch. This brother of his, this Sam; it was likely, given this existence of some troubled past, that he was an outlaw - that must be it! He was a hunted man, only able to sneak around at night, and Dean must have left some sign for him to follow. Whatever business engaged the knight must be pressing, or he would stay to meet the fugitive; but he did Garth a signal honour in trusting him with his safety.

“It’s fine,” he said now, as Dean watched him narrowly, almost hungrily, impatient to be off but requiring this certainty of his companion’s trust. “I understand - at least I think I do - and I’ll help Sam any way I can. You be off, now; I can see you fretting to get away; and I’ll go and gather the firewood. At least the rain has slackened somewhat, I shouldn’t get more than a light wetting, but you’ll be soaked if you plan to spend the night outdoors.” As he spoke, he reached out to take the axe, smiling to show all was well.

Dean smiled back, his demeanour easing at once, although some tautness remained in the set of his eyes and mouth. He nodded once, curtly.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll be fine; I’ll take my risks with the rain.”

“At least leave the hawk?” Garth tried. “Birds hate to get their feathers wet, and you can’t have need of him..?”

“I cannot,” Dean answered, turning his back and going over to the hawk; he put out his arm and the bird stepped onto the glove. “He would try to fly after me, and I won’t… he cannot be tethered. He is his own master. It’s safer this way. I know you will look after Baby; a-and Sam. Now I must be going; the sun is almost down, and there will be little enough light to show me my way. Fare well, until the morning.” He strode from the barn, the hawk sitting proudly at his wrist, as Garth wondered how, in this dusk, he could have any idea how close the sun was to setting; if indeed it hadn’t gone down already.

Shaking his head, he grasped the axe, picked up the bit of old sacking Dean had used earlier to rub down Jessamyn, and wrapped it around his head and shoulders as some protection from the rain before heading out in search of fuel. At one point, bending and straining to see in the rapidly dying light, he thought he heard a noise over in the bushes; a fluttering, followed by a gasp and then quick rustling, that soon ceased. He peered over in the direction the sounds had come from, but could see nothing. He felt uneasy though, thinking he could be watched; this brother of Dean’s, was he around already, prowling in the darkness? There could be even worse than a human outlaw, and it occurred to him suddenly that maybe Dean was sending Sam to protect him, rather than the other way around; to keep the monsters from eating his new squire, and horse, while he was away. It was not a pleasant thought, and Garth decided he had enough firewood and should be getting back to the barn, and the relative safety of its flimsy wooden walls.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	5. Chapter 5

As he ducked inside the door, Garth thought he glimpsed movement over in the shadows where Dean had left the saddlebags, and nearly dropped his armload of sticks in shock. 

“Hello, is someone there..?” he called, hesitantly; maybe the farmer had come to check on them, or to rummage through their gear? Yes, there was definitely a figure; it was standing now, it was huge, a giant of a man..! Garth clutched the sticks to his chest and reconsidered his stance on staying behind while the armed knight went wandering about the woods far from earshot. He had no more than seconds to feel frightened, however, before the figure had advanced and -

“Hello,” said the giant, his voice deep, pleasant and measured, though wary. “Can I help you?”

For all the world as though he belonged and Garth was the intruder here. Oh, of course. This must be Sam. Dean had never warned him to expect a giant!

“I’m, I’m Garth,” he stuttered, shifting his hold to hang onto his bundle with one arm while he held out the other to shake hands. “I’m with Dean, uh, he told me to expect you? If you’re Sam, that is? Pleased to meet you; goodness, I didn’t expect you to be so tall!”

It was impossible to make out the other’s expression in the darkness of the barn, but as he took the proffered hand and wrung it politely, Garth was sure he gave a wry chuckle.

“It’s been said,” he answered gravely. “Yes, I’m Sam. Now, before we make each other’s better acquaintance, we should probably do something with that firewood you have in your arms. Is there a hearth in here..?” He sounded doubtful.

“Dean said he’d find some stones before he left,” Garth replied, “but then he went out rather rapidly and… I don’t know if he came back.” He moved cautiously across the open floor of the barn, feeling with his foot, but encountering nothing. “Doesn’t seem so,” he finished.

“Well, we’ll just have to make do with what we have,” said the stranger - Sam - and he moved to take the sticks from Garth, setting them down in the middle of the bare earthen floor. He crouched and toyed with the firewood, arranging the sticks with the practiced ease of one who has built many a fire in near total darkness, then brought out a flint and steel from the pouch at his belt and struck a spark into a pinch of dried moss which he pushed carefully into the smaller twigs at the base of the pile.

“If you could bring some hay,” he suggested, “I’ll have this roaring in no time. Sorry, Jess, to burn your supper but this wood has been out in the rain too long to catch without a little help.”

His reference to the horse assured Garth that this man was really who he claimed to be, and he went readily to fetch some of the horse’s provender. Sam soon had a respectable fire going on the packed dirt, and they were able to inspect each other by its orange light. Sam did not resemble his brother greatly, though good looks seemed to run in their family. He was broader in the shoulders but rangy overall, and darker than Dean, with long, shaggy hair and more beard than the other’s day-old shadow. His features were softer, open and earnest, with a nose so sharp it reminded Garth of a bird’s beak peeking over its nest, but his eyes were deep and luminous and seemed to look deep into Garth’s soul. His clothes were similar to his brother’s, worn and plain, of good quality but much mended, and he too carried a sword at his hip. 

As Garth looked down, only vaguely interested, he caught the flash of firelight on the pommel and started; the jewel was unmistakable, a huge ruby that, if it were real, would fetch a king’s ransom. He had noticed just such a jewel on Dean’s sword, could not help but notice, his expert eye was drawn to pretty baubles, and it was the only sign of rank and prestige about the man. For both brothers to wield a similar sword, to have two jewels in the family of such a size and lustre; it was almost unbelievable. Could it be the same sword? But why would Dean have lent his sword to Sam, and why pass it over under cover of darkness, rather than simply leave it here for him to pick up - unless Dean didn’t trust Garth as much as he claimed?

“It’s all right,” Sam said gently, noticing Garth’s rapt attention. “The sword is for protection only, I am nobly born and permitted to carry it; you stand in no danger from me. Did Dean tell you who we are?”

“He only gave his Christian name, and yours,” Garth answered. “I wasn’t concerned that you go armed, I just; I was looking at the jewel. It seems… I thought I had seen its like before, and surely such a jewel has no twin, even if its bearer is a brother himself?”

Something about the stranger, this brother, set Garth at ease and made him more inclined to probe, where he would never have dared to question Dean. Or perhaps it was the flickering firelight that made the interior of the barn seem cosy and only semi real, as though the two of them huddled within a fantasy, a dream of the waking world.

“It is the same sword,” Sam answered slowly, “as you seem to have guessed. It is something of a family heirloom. Where Dean walks tonight, a sword would be… a hindrance. He left it for me to guard, and; no offence to your new friendship, but we had both rather it never left our sight. It is nothing personal.”

Garth nodded his dismissal of any slight. “He didn’t tell me much, but I got the impression Dean has… plans for that sword,” he said hesitantly, waiting to see whether Sam seemed to understand what he was saying before revealing more. Lord knows he didn’t want to come between them and spill Dean’s secrets, but surely his own brother would know of his bitter quest for justice? Especially if he, Sam, were involved somehow, which Garth felt sure of in his very bones.

Sam took his time answering, looking around until he spotted the leftover gruel - almost as though he were expecting it, Garth thought - and setting the clay bowl to warm in the ashes at the edge of the fire. That’s why Dean didn’t eat it all, Garth realised; he knew his brother would be coming by, also in need of food.

Eventually Sam began talking again, his voice low and pained. “Dean and I… had a great wrong done to us, some years ago now, but the… the consequences of that injustice grow ever greater with time. It is our lives’ mission to… to find a way to right that wrong, to make things as they should be, but… I fear that the hope for that dwindles, year on year, as we seek but come no closer to a solution. Dean, as you have surely seen for yourself, is a man of action; I know how this waiting must chafe him, and the waning hope… A braver man in a fight you will never meet, he shrugs off injury that would lay low any lesser man; but his own feelings eat at him, and that he finds harder to endure. I know his pain, even though he cannot - will not tell me, because I endure the same; but I am more patient, and perhaps I have more faith - in God? In Fate? - that somehow we must prevail; though that faith, too, is dwindling. If we do not find our answers soon, then I fear… I very much fear that Dean’s plans will turn indeed to action, and he will look for his solution on the edge of this blade, or along a nocked shaft. I do not think that will go well for either of us, but I have no argument against it, except ‘wait and see’; and I think he is done with waiting.”

He drew the bowl out from the fire, gingerly, with the piece of sacking Garth had used earlier to keep off the rain. Resting the dish atop the folded material on his knee, he began to eat.

“Does this have something to do with the mission Dean is on tonight?” Garth asked.

Sam glanced at him, his eyes bright in the firelight, but did not reply.

“I know it has something to do with the bishop,” he persevered. “It’s how we met; I was running from the bishop’s guard, they had their dogs after me, and Dean - and his hawk - yes, and Jess here, helped me to get away. So he told me of his enmity for the bishop, though he didn’t explain why. But… it’s him he wants to kill, isn’t it? I could see it in his eyes, and the way he kept playing with the sword. He wants to kill the Bishop of Winchester. Is he the man who wronged you both? What in God’s name did he do?”

“That is the man who wronged us, yes,” Sam replied; not shortly, as Dean would have answered, but slowly and with reservation. He looked up again at Garth and seemed to consider him, taking his measure. Then he rose and went over to the saddlebags, retrieving the book which Dean had been reading and stowed away there earlier. Sam brought the book back to the fire and sat down, perusing the pages with a slight frown. After only moments, he closed the book with a loud clap and looked over at Garth with a rueful smile. His hands crossed over the book and dangled in his lap.

“You will forgive me if I say no more on the subject,” he said. “It is a very delicate and… personal matter, and involving as it does such high authority, I should be careful what I relate, and to whose ears. I would like to trust you, Garth; I feel that I can trust you, though we have only just met; but as I know so little about you…” He shrugged apologetically.

It was clear that to find out more, Garth would have to share something of his own. He felt he was getting further with Sam than he ever would with Dean, and now seemed to be his chance, while this brother was amenable to the swapping of life stories. Who knew how he might reconsider, once he had spoken with Dean and both agreed their tale was not for the likes of a lowly thief? Besides, it would be even harder to hide his prize from two pairs of eyes, if he was to continue in their company, and he found that he wanted to. He liked these brothers and felt that with them, his luck might be on the rise. He didn’t think this man would turn him over to the authorities, though he might confiscate the book; but that, Garth found, was a risk he was willing to take. If he were only to be allowed to journey with them, act as their squire, the book would be an acceptable price for his indenture.

“I understand,” he said, spreading his hands humbly. “The truth of the matter is, my position is in no way as chivalrous as your own, and once I tell my short and common tale, I doubt you will wish to keep my company any longer. But I will tell you, so that you know I am honest; at least with you; and throw myself upon your mercy as to the outcome.”

Sam regarded him with level interest, only cocking an eyebrow to suggest he go on with his story.

Garth took a breath and expelled it, rushing out the naked truth before he could second-guess his decision. “I’m a thief,” he said apologetically, “though I’d never dream of taking a man’s personal treasures, much less the very sword that earns his livelihood, so I beg you turn your thoughts from the precious jewel on that pommel, because I promise you it is far from mine.”

Sam’s other eyebrow rose to meet its fellow, and the ghost of a smile hovered about his lips as his hand moved lazily to caress the hilt of the self-same sword.

“Indeed I think you much too intelligent a man,” he remarked, “as you know full well that were you to commit such a brazenly foolish act, both my brother and I would hunt you down to the ends of the earth. The reclamation of our father’s sword would stand before even that grim task to which we have alluded regarding the bishop.”

Garth swallowed, and Sam’s smile stretched wider. His eyes twinkled in the firelight and it was evident he was having fun.

“Given this understanding,” Sam went on, still smiling, and now taking his hand off the sword and folding his arms, “let me assure you that neither Dean nor I hold the means of a man’s livelihood against him, be it sword, shepherd’s crook or the agile fingers of a cutpurse, providing,” he emphasised the word distinctly, “that he seeks only to put food in his belly and refrains from harming the innocent. So tell me what it is you have stolen from the bishop, and do not fear that I will deliver you up to him - or to the sheriff - for your audacity.”

Encouraged by this unexpectedly favourable response, Garth, who had by nature a friendly and trusting temperament, yet also found himself to be a shrewd judge of character in the main, put his hand inside his jerkin and drew out the slim tome he had smuggled there since slipping it from its hallowed resting place.

“It was this,” he said simply, stroking the cover of soft, plain leather dyed a deep green and embossed with curlicues of gold to form the title. “I don’t really know what came over me, in all honesty; I never stole from a church before, much less a cathedral! But something about it… the light, falling on the open page… it seemed lovely, but at the same time, out of place somehow. It aroused my curiosity, and I am at best of times a creature of impulse, so I picked it up without thinking; and then I was spotted, and a hue and cry set up, and I was forced to flee. I suppose I could have dropped the book and made better my escape, but I… it never occurred to me, or I did not want to, I am not quite sure which. I don’t know why I should have taken such an interest, I cannot read; but the pictures were quite beautiful. Anyway. Please, take a look at it. I would appreciate your judgement as I must admit, I don’t quite know what I have stolen, or even what it may be worth.” And he offered the book, guilelessly, to Sam.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	6. Chapter 6

The other man reached out to take the book with casual interest, but as he read the title, he stiffened and his whole concentration came to bear on the little book with unmistakable intent. His eyes flashed in the firelight as they widened and darkened, and Garth could see that the book had aroused some great emotion in him, but what it was, he could not be sure. Garth swallowed nervously, hoping he had not just committed a grave error of judgement.

Slowly, and with trembling fingers, Sam opened the cover. To Garth, his care seemed reverent, and perhaps also verging on fearful. He turned the delicate pages with the barest brush of his fingertips, cradling the precious thing in his huge hands as someone used to handling books. The colours of the illustrations were muted in the orange glow of the fire, but the gilt leapt out in the light, shimmering across each page as though motes of sunlight had been trapped there by the artist’s brush.

“You… you say you took this from the cathedral? From Winchester?” he whispered, not looking up from the book.

“Yes, it was resting on a little lectern, before a shrine in the north chapel,” Garth replied. He was beginning to feel very uneasy; clearly, this was an important book, and its theft was seeming more and more momentous - and mistaken.

“Can you show me; do you think you can find the page it was opened upon, when you found it?” Sam asked. He didn’t offer the book back however, so Garth had to move around to sit next to him and lean across to turn the pages.

“Yes, um, I think… this is the one! I’m sure of it, because I was so struck by the image of the little moons; or are they suns? And all the animals cavorting about the page.” 

Garth liked animals, and they romped in colourful abandon all over the double spread of vellum before them. There were antlered deer, bright birds with outstretched wings, lithe rabbits and bushy tailed squirrels; even a wolf, lean and panting with a crimson, lolling tongue as it crouched, ready to spring. Over the tops of the pages, arcing above the animals in some sort of heavenly fresco, was a sequence of little golden circles that winked and shone, bright as newly minted money. Some were almost whole, like clipped coins; some were outlines only, like shining rings shaded black in the centre. Still others were like a thumbnail, perfect little crescents that had made Garth think of moons, though to his mind, the moon should be more silver than golden.

“It’s very beautiful,” he said now, glancing hesitantly at Sam’s expression. It was unreadable, but intense. “I take it the book is important; is it very holy? I found it in a side chapel and so I didn’t think… I mean, obviously it’s valuable, but…” 

Sam laughed suddenly, a hollow, pained sound that had nothing of mirth in it. “It isn’t holy at all,” he murmured, and he caressed the edges of the pages much, Garth thought, as Dean had earlier caressed his sword. 

“Not… not holy? But it’s from the cathedral,” Garth said, thoroughly bewildered.

Suddenly, there came sounds from outside the barn; a gasp, a scuffle, and the low growl of a dog or some predatory beast. Sam was up on his feet in an instant, slapping the book against Garth’s chest as he rose, and strode swiftly to throw wide the rickety door.

“No, no!” came a squealing cry of terror, “get off me; back away, you brute! Oh, sir, help me, kill it; kill it, please!”

There in the doorway grovelled the farmer, on his backside in the dirt, scrabbling frantically in such blind terror that he could not pick himself upright; and there not three feet away stood the cause of his fright, an enormous wolf, crouched to spring just like the picture in the book. Its ears were flat against its skull and its teeth gleamed as it snarled menacingly, low in its throat.

“Stop!” said Sam, sharply. “Dean, no! Leave him alone.”

Garth stared, stunned, as instead of drawing his sword and running the creature through, Sam rushed to the wolf and actually put his hands around its neck; not to strangle it, as Garth imagined for one wild moment, but to hold it back. The peasant struggled to his feet and stumbled backwards until he hit a tree, his own hands to his throat as though to shield it from the ravaging jaws that only Sam’s intervention had prevented from closing about his neck.

“Sir, oh, sir,” the farmer gabbled, “please, I beg you, don’t let him get me; is the beast yours? I meant no harm, truly I didn’t; please, I swear it, make him stand down and I won’t bother you, you can have the barn for free and I’ll throw in all the food we have! Only don’t let him bite me, please, have mercy!”

“Were you spying on us?” Sam growled, and his tone was so different to how it had sounded earlier, when he was chatting amiably, that the hairs stood up on the back of Garth’s neck. All of a sudden, his mind flew back to the giant who had stood up in the shadows and surprised him, and this man crouching by a wolf, almost embracing the creature as it continued to snarl through furled back lips, seemed almost as wild and dangerous as the animal.

“I’m sorry!” shrieked the peasant, thrusting out his hands imploringly. “I meant no harm! I only chanced to hear voices as I passed, and didn’t recognise your good self, and wanted to see who was making free of my barn, and then…” He stopped, licking his lips and cringing.

“And then you saw the book, didn’t you,” Sam said coldly. “And you could see it was valuable, so no doubt you were wondering how you might get hold of it for yourself?”

“No,” the man almost sobbed, “I swear it, I never would have - it looked so lovely in the firelight is all, so golden and shining, I couldn’t look away. I’m no thief, I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t! Please, sir, have mercy, my poor wife..!”

“All right,” said Sam, standing up straight, but he kept one hand on the wolf’s head. “I’ll take your word for it, but no more spying. I’ll take that food you offered, too, but we’ll pay for it; we’re honest men, not brigands. If you have a chicken to roast, that will do very well. Go on now; don’t worry, the wolf won’t attack you. He minds me; after a fashion. But he also knows when a man is up to some mischief, so you had better behave.”

The farmer peeled himself from the tree and hurried off, with much bowing and scraping and muttered oaths of gratitude and service; and Sam knelt down and whispered something into the wolf’s ear while petting its shaggy neck. The wolf whined, licked his face, then turned and trotted off into the night. Sam stood, staring after it for several moments, then turned and made his way back into the barn.

By this time, Garth had managed to compose himself and pick his hanging jaw up off the floor, but he was shaken and amazed and knew that it must show on his face as Sam came over to the fire, looking stern and brooding. More than anything, he wanted to ask why he’d called the wolf by his brother’s name; Garth was sure he hadn’t misheard or imagined that; but Sam’s demeanour frightened him and a momentous idea lurked at the back of his mind, too fanciful to put into conscious words. Something was going on here, some great and awful mystery that involved the brothers, and the wolf, and the book… he was sure of it, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

Then Sam interrupted his chaotic thoughts, speaking gruffly but less menacingly than he had addressed the peasant. “Do you have the book?” he asked.

Garth nodded, clasping his arms across his chest, where he had hurriedly shoved the book back inside his tunic as Sam went to open the doors.

“Good,” said Sam. “Keep it safe. I won’t take it from you;” he seemed to understand some of Garth’s concern, “it is no more mine than it is yours, by right; but it must not get back to the bishop. What you have there…” He paused and breathed in deeply, shaking his head. “I think, I hope I may trust you, but I cannot reveal all. What I can tell you is that that little book you have so fortuitously stolen, may be the key to my and my brother’s salvation. Keep it hidden, I beg you. I do not think it simple chance that you stumbled upon the book as you did, and then upon my brother, in time for Dean to save you from the bishop’s men. I think - I hope - that finally, after all this time, my prayers have found an answer.”

Sam did not seem inclined to say more, and Garth was not inclined to press him. They roasted and ate the chicken the farmer cringingly brought to them (his head turning this way and that, eyes wide and fearful as he searched the corners of the barn for the absent wolf) and left a leg and a wing along with the pickings for Dean when he returned. Sam picked up the leather-bound book which he had consulted earlier and then took a quill and a small bottle of ink from the saddlebags and sat down to write in it, as Garth looked on, fascinated by such skill.

Seeming to notice his admiration, Sam looked up at Garth and smiled. “It is a journal, of sorts,” he answered the smaller man’s silent curiosity. “It helps me - us - to order our thoughts, to note down things of import which we might later forget, and so assist us in solving the sometimes tricky and uncertain mysteries which beset us in our work.”

“You checked there earlier to see if Dean had written anything about me, didn’t you?” Garth asked, shrewdly. That won him a wider, and approving, grin.

“Yes. You are clever, and observant,” Sam replied. “I can see why Dean has taken up with you, and I would value your judgement, but… I don’t want to say anything yet, until Dean has the chance to bring his own opinion to the matter. Tomorrow, when he… returns, I would like you to show him your book, and tell him I approve of bringing you into our trust. I have written about the book here,” he tapped the journal, “so Dean can read it and make up his mind. If he agrees, you can discuss it with him.”

Garth frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “You speak as though you won’t be around; are you not staying? Won’t you meet up with your brother on the morrow, so we may discuss it all together?”

A strange expression crossed Sam’s face, almost wincing, and the tilt of his mouth was sad. “Alas, I cannot,” he said. “I must… I must be away by sunrise, and will not get the chance to see him. Dean’s… business will keep him out past then. I will leave the sword with you though, when I go.”

“It is kind of you to trust me,” Garth said, frankly. “Knowing now that I am a thief, and when Dean himself would not entrust me with the sword; yet you will leave me both the sword and this book which you deem of such importance,” and he tapped the object inside his tunic.

Sam’s smile was blinding in its simple faith and sincerity. “I am a good judge of character,” he replied, “and besides, Dean did leave you to guard his horse, which says quite enough about how much he trusts you. And thief you might be, but no fool; you would not risk our anger or our joint persecution. The only risk I take is that you might depart with the book; but I do not think so. You are curious to know what it means, and how our tale will play out.”

Garth laughed, and bowed at the waist with a flourish. “You are indeed a good judge of character,” he said, “and I admit that since meeting you both, my curiosity has been roused more than a cat’s at a mousehole. I will stay, and I will speak with Dean. I trust we’ll be seeing you again soon, though?”

Again that peculiar expression fleeted over Sam’s features, but all he said was, “Soon enough; my own business will only take me away for the day. Now it is getting late, and the fire is dying; I suggest we both settle to get some sleep.”

Garth was very willing to do just that; it had been a most exciting day; but one small worry niggled at the corner of his mind, less a logical fear than the nervous insistence of instinct.

“The wolf,” he asked; “he won’t..?”

“Do not worry about the wolf,” Sam answered gently. “He is not likely to come in here while I have company; and in any case he would not harm you. He knows you for a friend. Our host is much safer than he realises, too; he would never have bitten him. I let him think so, because it pays to have a guard whose presence is not even required to instil caution.”

“How did you come to tame the beast?” Garth wondered, but this query was met with a long silence, as Sam busied himself with putting things back in the saddlebags and shaking out blankets over piles of hay for the two of them. Eventually, as they both lay down on their makeshift pallets and the dwindling firelight glinted redly from Jessamyn’s harness, Sam said, so low and soft that he might be talking to himself,

“I grew up with him. He is my constant and faithful companion.”

“Like the hawk is to Dean?” Garth asked, just as softly.

“Even so,” Sam replied, and said no more. Soon, they both drifted off to sleep, to the rustling of the embers and the quiet, breathy noises of the drowsing horse. The rain had stopped, and there came not a sound from the night outside the barn. 

The next morning, when Garth woke yawning and rubbing the kinks from his back, there was no sign of Sam; but Dean sat there watching him, gnawing on a chicken bone, with the sword strapped again about his waist, and the hawk was perched in its customary spot on the railing by Jessamyn’s head.

“Rise and shine,” the knight said cheerfully, pitching the bone into the blackened ashes of the fire. “You can’t lie abed all morning; we’ve work to do.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	7. Chapter 7

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50062430658/in/album-72157714923289397/)

Dean eyed the young man covertly as he helped to pack away the bed rolls and stamp out the last greying embers of the fire. Last night, he must have met Sam… and the thought filled Dean with conflicting emotions. Jealousy boiled up as bitter as wormwood, that this man, chance met only yesterday, should have had the fortune to see and to speak with the one for whom Dean’s heart yearned in vain. Yet he couldn’t resent Garth; it wasn’t his fault, and Dean had allowed him to stay full knowing what would happen come sundown. He wanted to know what they had talked about, how Sam had looked; was he well, did he seem - likely not happy, but at least not depressed in spirit? Dean was not much for self analysis, but he realised that, in finding them a mutual companion, he hoped to learn about his brother; to experience as much of him as he could through another’s eyes.

“You’ll have met my brother last night,” he said, as casually as he could. “How… how did he seem to you, was he well?” Did he miss me, did he speak of me, he wanted to ask but never would.

“I liked him,” Garth answered readily, “we got along well. He seemed hale and hearty, so if you were worrying he might have got himself injured somehow, have no fears on that score.” He laughed suddenly. “He’s a tall man though; you staged quite a surprise for me there! I came upon him in the back of the barn, in the dark, and my heart nearly flew from my mouth. You’re no stripling yourself, but I think your brother could pick you up and carry you on his back and barely break a sweat.”

Dean stood still and stared. Sam was big now? The last time he had seen him, yes, he had been tall, and likely set to overtake Dean in height, but he had been a gangly youth, all awkward, coltish limbs and a waist as slender as a girl’s. It caused him a pang of indefinable loss to know that Sam had grown up without him, that his little brother was not so little anymore… it had never really occurred to him, but of course Sam was now a fully grown adult, and he had missed the spectacle of it unfolding over the years. Yet one more thing of which Alastair had robbed him.

“Are… are you all right?” Garth asked, hesitantly, and Dean swallowed and shook himself lightly to centre himself back upon the here and now.

“Yes, I’m…” but he couldn’t explain himself, there was no possible way Garth could understand how he had not seen his brother in years, not without telling him the truth (impossible!) or making up some elaborate lie about how Sam had been away all this time; and it was too late for that now, who knew what the two of them had discussed that would find Dean out in a lie? He settled on a compromise, honest enough without giving too much away.

“I just haven’t seen him in some time,” he said carefully. “I’m glad to hear that he’s… doing well.”

Garth eyed him with an expression that told quite plainly of his scepticism; silently, Dean cursed himself for a fool. Of course, he had warned Garth of Sam’s coming, and how would he have known of that, if they had not recently met? He should stop talking; he needed to know what the two of them had spoken of, so that he could work around whatever half-truths Sam might have offered their new friend. He was starting to wonder if it had not been a mistake to let him stay, after all.

As he wondered how to broach the subject without giving away his secrets and his fears, Dean busied himself with packing up the saddlebags and loading them onto his mare. Then Garth, who Dean was beginning to realise was a great deal shrewder and more observant than his scrawny street urchin appearance suggested, saved him the trouble. He spoke up now quietly, from where he stood at Jessamyn’s head, keeping her occupied with wisps of hay.

“I know that there is something going on, between the two of you,” he said, and Dean’s fingers stilled on the saddle ties as he stood, tense and uncertain, waiting for the blade of judgement to swing down.

“Last night…” Garth went on; he paused momentarily then continued in a soft tone, soothing almost, as though he were talking to the horse in front of him. “I was talking with Sam, and he wanted to tell me of your history, but he did not wish to break confidence behind your back. I know that it involves the bishop of Winchester; well, you told me as much yourself; and I can guess that it has much to do with the way you roam about like landless knights, though your horse, and the jewel on your sword, proclaim you to be of high birth, if not present standing.”

He paused again, waiting for Dean to react, but the knight just murmured a tight “Go on,” wanting to know everything this man knew, or thought he did, before he himself said anything more to lay bare the torturous secret of their lives.

“I think,” Garth went on, still in that careful tone, not quite wary but weighty with calm and tact, “that you need someone to trust; and while the honour would be all mine, there are reasons why you might trust me, more than any other chance-met stranger. Sam saw this, and he bid me tell you - to ask you - to take me into your confidence; but he knew you would not take my word for it alone, so he wrote to you, in that book you share, your journal.” He swallowed audibly. “I think… it would be a good idea for you to read it now, before we go on.”

Dean considered; so Sam had told him about the journal? Could he read, might he know what had been written therein - surely Sam would not have given him the chance to sneak the book away by night and peruse its contents? They did not spill all their secrets on those precious pages, there was too much chance the book could fall into the hands of another and betray them, so he would have learned little of consequence; but still, it was their private link, their only means of contact down the empty years, and he could not bear the thought of prying eyes, however sympathetic.

“Did he show you what he has written?” he asked Garth, his voice drawn tight as a bowstring, and he turned to look him square in the eye so as to judge his response.

The lad raised his arms to the side in a loose, placatory shrug. “I cannot read,” he answered candidly, “but he told me how you use the book, to keep notes on things of import. He knew he would not see you today, and there is a matter of which you should be apprised.” His smile was open and disarming; Dean readily believed him.

“All right then,” he said, not altogether grudgingly, and extracted the journal. He took it to read in a shaft of sunlight that poured through the doorway, propping himself against the wall in an easy slouch. As he leafed to the newest entry, he guessed that Sam would have penned some earnest entreaty for him to confide in their new companion, and he smiled to himself thinking fondly that his brother was as trusting as a puppy. It was good that at least he had had the sense to consult Dean before spilling everything to a relative stranger. As soon as his eye fell upon Sam’s latest missive, however, his indulgent mood sharpened and focused as though he sighted a target along the drawn string of his bow.

_A solution at last!_ Sam had written. _You would not think it to look at him, but your rescued waif and stray might just be an angel sent from Heaven to help us._

Dean glanced up sharply at Garth, who watched him warily while stroking Baby’s broad nose. Sam was right about that, at any rate; he certainly did not look like any of the angels Dean had seen depicted in the paintings, frescoes and tapestries that adorned the cathedral of their city. But God, they did say, worked in mysterious ways. He went back to the journal.

_He possesses a book; he will tell you how he came by it; that is crucial to our most pressing need. You will understand when you read one particular passage. But I cannot write of it here, where other eyes might chance upon it, and so I urge you brother, to take the boy into your confidence. Let us trust in him, as Fate or God between them have provided, and use him as our go-between, to facilitate our communication; and let him assist us in whatever way he might. I think we may have here the key to unlock that door which has stood between us for too long!_

_PS He has seen the Wolf._

_PPS If your Latin is rusty, I will endeavour to provide the needed translation._

Dean snorted softly as he closed the journal, and could not help but grin at his brother’s artful sally. ‘Endeavour to provide’ indeed. He flashed a glance at the hawk and murmured, “You may be cleverer than me, Sammy, but my Latin isn’t so bad; I did pay attention, at least some of the time!”

“You understand Latin?” Garth asked, clearly thinking Dean had addressed him. He seemed impressed, but it was not such a wonder, if he only knew. Dean waved a hand dismissively.

“To learn to read,” he explained, “one must first grasp the tongue of Mother Church. Most books are written in it, you see. As is, I gather, this book you carry. Now why should a man who cannot read be possessed of such a thing?” He smiled, to ease any sense of suspicion behind his words. It was no great guess that the object was stolen, but he had no care for that, and no desire to frighten off the lad.

Garth took a deep breath and crossed his arms. It was a defensive gesture, seemingly reflexive, and it was clear that he must have hidden the book inside his tunic; there was nowhere else on his lanky frame where he could have kept it so long out of sight.

“I took it,” he said in a tone that was doubtless meant to sound determined, but came out a little too high and wavering. “If Sam did not already tell you so, I found it in the cathedral and… and I do not know what came over me, I had gone in there only to pray; and though thief I may be, sometimes, it is only for my own survival. I would never have dreamed to steal from such a holy place! But the book, it… it seemed to call to me, it glittered so as though the sun shone full upon it, and it did not just have writing, but wonderful illumination… Anyway, they came after me for it, and you know the rest.”

“May I see this wonderful book?” Dean asked, gently. He waited for Garth to overcome some kind of internal struggle, then sigh and reach down into his tunic to pull out a slim volume bound in green.

“This is the page that so interested Sam,” he offered, opening the text and rifling through the pages as he stepped forward, then handed the book to Dean. “It was the same page I first saw in the cathedral, too, but I have no notion what it means. I like all the little animals; they are expertly painted.”

Dean took the book carefully and balanced it upon his own; it was clearly precious by the amount of gilt in the illumination. He agreed with Garth about the illustrations, but chiefly his eye was drawn at once to just two figures: a crouching wolf and a hawk soaring in flight. He read the title at the top of the page, murmuring as he translated painstakingly from the Latin.

“A spell of transformation: to bind a false lover and render him impotent.”

“Render a false lover impotent?” Garth echoed, astonished. “Oh no… man, I’m so… I didn’t… Did he, you know…” He gestured furtively at his groin, and grimaced. “To you, or Sam? For, for… improper advances to a girl?”

Dean felt his cheeks flush and could not look at the other man. There was no way he could admit the truth, but he couldn’t have Garth thinking either of them had done wrong by a woman, and as for him being unmanned..! “No no, everything works uh… just as it should,” he insisted. “My Latin is probably a little shaky,” he went on, somewhat untruthfully. “It probably doesn’t say exactly that; um, loved one? Is likely closer in intent. That could mean a relative, as well as a lady-love. And of course we’re not - ‘impotent’ can be translated as ‘powerless’ or ‘incapacitated’. It can be tricky to pin down a specific meaning between one language and another.”

“All right...” Garth’s face was puckered in a frown as he worked out the implications. “So… a spell? Is this witchcraft? Are you saying that the bishop has used this; this magic, to bind you, or your brother in some way?” 

He groped his way towards understanding, and Dean marveled that he could so easily accept that witchcraft was at play here, let alone under the auspices of a man of the cloth. What wonders had he and Sam discussed, if not their closest secret?

“Yes, I am; that’s exactly what he did,” Dean said with quiet force. “He bound us to keep us apart - to separate us; so that we can never meet, but are forced to wander apart from one another, from one day to the next. It is because of his spell that I have not seen my brother in years, for all that we never stray far, and we are forced to communicate, what little we can, by means of this journal.” He tapped the larger, plainer book beneath the grimoire, for such a thing it clearly was.

“But that’s horrible!” Garth cried, and Dean was in no disagreement with him there. “Why would he have done such a thing? What caused this enmity, do you know?”

Dean fidgeted uncomfortably, running a finger under the collar of his shirt that felt suddenly a little tight. He agreed with Sam, in principle; they could use Garth’s help; but there was a limit to how far they could let him into their confidence, and he had already slipped once, in voicing the literal translation of the spell.

“It suits his purposes to confound our father and keep him from the court,” he said, which was certainly the truth, if not the whole of it. “Our father is; or was; a good friend to the king, but less so to his new wife, the witch Lilith. You look shocked,” he added with a twist of a smile, “but so they whisper about her and so it is, though of course Robert will not hear a word said against her. Alastair is one of her followers, and his political ambitions are great. Of course we could not prove anything, before now; but it seems you have discovered the very spell he used to work his foul enchantment. If we cannot use the book to undo his witchcraft, then at least we may be able to present it in evidence against him; and if that does not force him to reverse the spell, at the very least we may have the satisfaction of seeing him driven from his high position. But it would be good to have an objective witness, and that, my friend, is where you come in.”

“I am eager to help in any way that I can,” Garth avowed, “but are you sure that it was the bishop..? I found the book in a side chapel, it was not even locked away; it might have been used by anyone in the church?”

“Oh, it was him, all right,” Dean answered grimly. “He spoke the spell right over us both, and… and it took effect at once.” 

He remembered it with excruciating horror, the moment echoing through his nightmares whenever he dared to sleep, though that was seldom; he got some sleep at night, or presumed he did, and for the most part avoided having to lay down his head in human form for more than a couple of dreamless hours at a time. But when he did dream… It was of Sammy, his beloved brother, throwing up his arms and his mouth stretching wide in a soundless O of shock, as a blue whirlwind of light seemed to spin up out of the ground around him. It enveloped him, and he shrank, receding into the light so that Dean was sure he would dwindle away to nothing; but then the hawk, with a shrill scream, burst out of the light and flapped away in animal terror, while Alastair laughed until his voice echoed like thunder. It had taken days before they pieced together the full, horrific truth of what had been done to them; days, and a nasty incident when Dean had attacked their father’s huntsman for attempting, as the man must have seen it, to protect Sam from a ravening wild beast.

He saw that Garth was eyeing him again, as though he knew that some significant details were being missed.

“Last night,” Garth said slowly, as he watched Dean’s face, “a wolf came to the barn and frightened the farmer - oh don’t worry,” he interjected, as Dean gave an anxious start, “Sam smoothed it all away and no harm was done; but it was clear Sam and the wolf were more than just passing acquaintances. Now, I would have thought little more than the farmer, that the man just happens to have a tamed wolf for a guard dog, and why not? But I heard him call the wolf by name, and I know I was not mistaken. Now, wait;” he held up his hand as Dean made to speak, and the denial died on his lips; after all, if Garth had guessed already, it would make explanations that much easier. Now, the young man carried on, counting off his fingers to emphasise his observations.

“These are the connections I make in my mind, as sure as placing stepping stones to cross a stream. Firstly, that whether by magic or no, the two of you seem hardly to meet; that much I have seen with my own eyes, as one comes and the other goes by daybreak or nightfall.

“Secondly, besides fair Jessamyn here, who is the only constant betwixt all your comings and goings, each of you seems to have an animal as his bosom companion, your hawk and Sam’s wolf. And when you took your leave yesterday evening, you carried the hawk away with you, though you left the mare. That would be most convenient, if it were to shield him from my eyes at a critical point in time.

“Thirdly,” he continued to count as Dean looked on, silent and impressed, “the way you share all your belongings… the horse, the sword, the journal and the food. It is more than just closeness or necessity; it is as though, when you leave, you cannot carry more with you than the clothes upon your backs. Were you cursed only to stay away and avoid one another’s company, there would be extra need, not less, for each to carry his own personal stock of possessions.

“Fourthly, there is, as I have mentioned, the revealing fact that you and the wolf seem to share a name. And perhaps, missing you as he does, Sam named his pet for you, as I am sure you could argue, so let us not dwell on this one point; but finally, and the greatest clue of all:

“Here in this very book, with the spell you say was cast upon you both, a spell you read as not just enchantment but transformation - the pictures accompanying the spell, well, they are of animals, and one among them is a very fine wolf; as I am sure I could find an equally handsome hawk, were I to search for him.

“So you see,” he finished, with a quiet conviction that left Dean speechless, “I know that it seems fantastic, and before today I would have scoffed at the notion of witchcraft as a child’s bedside fable; but you yourself insist that it is so, and once one is accepted in good faith, how should it be any great leap to recognise the other, when backed by so many observations? 

“I know I look like nothing much, and I lack your highborne skills of reading and swordplay and riding a horse; but I have my own history, which doesn’t much matter now, except that I am not an ignorant peasant, and I will not let any man pull the wool over my eyes no matter the seeming absurdity. I hold onto facts, because they count towards survival far better than wishes, and what the facts are telling me is that you, sir, are the wolf; and you, sir hawk,” he turned around to address the bird as though it were listening, “are none other than Dean’s currently absent brother, Sam. Now tell me if I have any of that wrong.”

And with that, he turned back towards Dean and folded his arms across his chest, raising his chin and looking pleased with himself. As well he might, Dean thought, because that really was an astounding chain of deduction; it had taken longer for their father to believe what was going on, and they had trooped in and out right before his eyes on a daily round.

Dean lifted his hands and applauded slowly, without a shred of sarcasm.

“Consider me impressed,” he said with a small smile, “and there is little lately that stirs my appreciation. Well, what is there to say, but that you are correct on all points? It was indeed a spell of transformation; and so I roam the woods at night with fangs and a tail, and my brother here,” he nodded his head to the hawk, “sports his feathers during the daylight hours. And so we are still together, in essence, but in four years I have not set eyes upon his face, or heard his voice, or felt… the touch of his hand…” his throat constricted, and he looked away, so that Garth would not see the tears that gathered in the corner of his eye.

“And so that brings us back to the spell,” Garth said, very gently. “And if I understand rightly, Sam believes that the counterspell is also to be found here?”

“Most spells work that way,” Dean nodded, collecting himself. “We’ve had our, ah… experiences, you might say.”

They had, in fact, made a specialty of investigating witchcraft and similar cases, in the hopes of finding answers to their own; but their research proved only that such a spell, able to transform a man bodily for such a long period of time, was way beyond the talent or arcane knowledge of the average hedge practitioner. They were looking for an accomplished magician indeed, and a very rare and powerful magic.

“How does it work?” Garth asked, his tone laced with intrigue. “Must you simply reverse the spell, or is there a counter written out beneath?”

Dean laughed, shortly and without humour. “Twould be a miracle if it were that simple,” he replied. “The counter is never explicitly stated; it is part of the craft, and the cunning, of witches to know how to reverse their own magic - if they wish to. But the clues will be hidden in the wording and method of the spell, so all we have to do is unravel it. Sam is better at that sort of thing than me, but there is no reason I cannot give it my best shot, and you can inform him of any progress. Maybe I, or even you, can provide a little insight to assist.” 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	8. Chapter 8

Dean grinned at the young thief; somewhere in the short time since their meeting, perhaps even during their present conversation, he had decided he trusted Garth and, like Sam, would be grateful for whatever input he could provide. They had gone so long, not just without one another, but without the succour of friendship or allies, and man was not made to endure so long alone. Life was bitter, and lost much of its colour and savour, when you bore such a weight of grief and responsibility. Admitting their secret to Garth was like sharing the burden, perhaps only the tiniest part, yet it was as uplifting to his soul as the fresh spring rain, cleansing away the murk of doubt and despair. He felt suddenly energised, conspiratorial, and optimistic at long last that they could find a way through.

Garth seemed to feel the same way; he smiled back, proud and excited, and bounced a little on his toes. “All right then!” the young man exclaimed, happily. “Can you translate the spell for me?”

So Dean, haltingly and painstakingly, put forward his best efforts to tease the ancient Latin into the vernacular. He could read, but as he had told Garth, it wasn’t his favoured pastime; unlike Sammy, who had always been delighted to stick his nose in a book, whatever its subject. Dean was no simpleton, by far, but he preferred working with his hands and his body; hunting, fighting, caring for his horse and his weapons. The pursuits of the classroom had always seemed a chore, chafing his restless nature and the desire to be up and doing; but Sam thrived among books (though he was no slouch, either, when it came to the physical) and so the choice had been simple, and no choice at all. Spend time learning, honing his mind, and that was more time spent in the company of his beloved little brother. Although never quite up to Sam’s level, Dean had found that he could master his lessons with relative ease, once he submitted himself to the task, and brought their affectionate tutor almost to tears with astonished pride. He was grateful that he had seen fit to make such an effort in his impulsive youth; reading paid off amply in the here and now.

He began to read aloud from the book.

“A spell of transformation: to bind a false... loved one and render him... harmless.” He stumbled a little over the deliberate mistranslation of those telling words, hoping to avoid further allusion to their forbidden secret.

“To unlock the animal spirit that dwells deep within every man, and thus show his true nature to the world. As a greedy hog, a stubborn ass, or a poisonous viper that slithers upon its belly, no matter how ferocious his aspect, the knave will be made impotent by his change. - Ah, see,” he said in an aside, “there it is, the meaning is clear now. - Flee him or cage him, his life is now in your hands, the tables turned,” he finished.

“The wording seems very vengeful,” Garth interrupted, frowning. “False action, true nature revealed; made powerless; the tables turned. This is not just a spell to change a man; it seems designed to punish, to put power back in the hands of one who has been wronged.”

“Well it is witchcraft,” Dean answered lightly. “I suppose witches are often called upon to serve the needs and redress the wrongs of the women in their community; the spell is most probably used against overbearing relatives. Demanding fathers and lazy husbands. Turn him into a pig for a day or so, see if he repents his ways.”

“That makes sense,” Garth agreed. “It would also explain the wording in the title; it is lover, because the spell is mostly intended for use against men who have wronged a woman, such as rapists and philanderers; and that also explains the term ‘false’. I had been wondering how you had committed any falsehood against the bishop, but I suppose he merely widened the remit of the spell; it seems one need not actually be guilty of any moral slight to be affected by the magic.”

Dean kept his thoughts to himself on that score. He suspected that Sam and he fit the purpose of the spell all too well, and it had nothing to do with their relationship (or lack of one) to Alastair. Were they false to each other, no, not at all; but as he would see it, evil or not, as a man of the church - as their father had seen it - their love for one another was false; a wrong thing, depravity, a corruption. They were being punished but, at the same time, Alastair had managed to find a way to control their father and yet, throughout it all, was doing only what he had been asked. Dean had heard it times beyond counting, beyond bearing, as their sire wept over his winecup: “I only wanted him to cure you, to keep you from plunging further into sin.” He had asked Alastair to save them from themselves, to force them apart only as far as brothers should properly be. Instead, the man had used the opportunity to tear their whole family apart. Dean did not waste too much time dwelling on his own guilt over the situation; he loved Sam, and if it was wrong, then it was wrong, and he would pay his dues in full course, but this? This was a thousand times worse. He saved all his bitter acrimony and judgement for the man who had done this thing to them. 

There was no need to go into any of that for Garth’s sake, however. He was glad of the ready interpretation, doubtless true, that the spell had been designed to punish the like of cheating husbands. It would make it much easier for him to translate the spell aloud if he did not have to watch out for betraying words.

The spell as it stood seemed typical in the basics, though not so steeped in the black arts as he had supposed. There was no mention of Satan or any of his demons; indeed the forces being called upon were an obscure reference to some Lord and Lady of the Green, which he took to indicate, perhaps, some pagan deities of nature. Dean had discovered enough concerning witches to know that they were not all evil, though the church deemed it otherwise; that did not mean that their magic could not be used for ill intent. As he read on, Alastair’s ingenuity became grimly obvious. The spell, the book clearly warned, would not hold for long at a continual stretch, but could be prolonged almost indefinitely if the transformation were allowed to wear off and its power to recharge. The timing seemed to be keyed to the cycles of the sun and moon, or rather, to the ‘elemental crux point’ of day and night - the twilight hours, those mystical moments just before sunrise and just after sunset, when the world lay neither in light nor dark but in shadowed balance between. Alastair had worked it so that one brother would transform as the spell was allowed to relax on the other, effectively keeping them from ever interacting; an idea as novel as it was cruel, and not the purpose of the original spell.

Hope flared in Dean’s heart as he stumbled on, and realised that the spell had not intended its victims to suffer for eternity. It seemed to have been devised for an object lesson in humility and repentance, and assured the caster that the spell could easily be lifted from the penitent subject by the simple reaffirmation of vows. The enchanted person could be reunited with their loved one in a handfasting ceremony performed by any competent minister, at a time when the transformation should be temporarily lifted…

Oh. Dean’s heart plummeted towards his boots. And there was Alastair’s perfidy in all its malignance. He had ensured that there never would be such a time for the brothers, because as one changed, so at that exact same time did the other change back.

He realised, after some moments spent staring bleakly at the book which had doomed them both, that Garth was watching him a little oddly. With an effort, he turned his head and forced a tired smile.

“Well, that’s that,” Dean said with feigned lightness, and gently closed the spellbook. He was exerting a great deal of control over his movements, for fear that otherwise, he would have damaged the book, by hurling it across the barn or tearing it asunder.

“You can’t perform the ceremony because you don’t transform at the same time,” Garth nodded his understanding, but still he frowned. “But Dean…” he paused, seeming to pick his words. “I don’t quite understand… I mean, even without that, I don’t see how it would help you. A handfasting? That is a marriage ceremony, it is the binding of two lovers in a unity of purpose and spirit. Suitable for the original subjects of the spell… if it was truly intended for husbands or lovers, not fathers and… and brothers.”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “I imagine that there is a way around that,” he said, “some wording of the ritual that does not preclude such individuals from absolution. It is a book of witchcraft, written, I think, in a time and for a community that was not governed by the church as we are now. If it were not anyways impossible, we could seek out the measure of such a ceremony, and the one to perform it. ‘Any competent minister’; that suggests a degree of flexibility, don’t you think?”

“But… you think it impossible?” Garth pursued, scrunching up his features. “Is there no moment of any day, perhaps at the sun’s height in summer or its opposite in midwinter, some time - even a few precious minutes - when the forces which govern the spell are so attuned, they cancel one another out..?”

“I have experienced none in all the years during which this curse has afflicted us,” Dean bitterly replied. “As I change, so does he; it is near instantaneous, a process that is accomplished within the blink of an eye. I do not remember my transformation into a wolf; but each morning, as I become a man again, my first waking impression is of my brother, not a handsbreadth away, being taken by the spell; being taken from me. Always so close, it is as though we could reach out and touch one another, but in that instant when we try, he is lost to me.”

What need of nightmares to remind him of that terrible change, when it unravelled before his shrinking eyes at every light of dawn, as unreal and yet absolute and horrifying as the first time, when Alastair had cast the spell?

“Come,” he said shortly, “we will speak no more of this for now. Put the book away and discuss it with Sam, when it is his time. I wish to go into town and purchase some provisions, and you are welcome to come with me; you will be safe enough, the bishop’s men do not have the authority to wrest you from my guardianship. But perhaps we had better hide the book in Baby’s saddlebags, rather than your shirt.”

“Who are you,” Garth marvelled, “to have such sway over his minions, when it is the bishop himself who has you under his spell?”

“Had you not guessed?” Dean asked, cocking his head to one side and lifting his lips in a wry, deprecatory grin. “Our father is John Winchester, the lord of this city and all its demesnes. We may wander as landless knights, but in truth, there is none here save our father who holds higher rank than my little brother and I.”

And with that, he looped Jessamyn’s reins about one hand and clicked his tongue for her to follow him, while the hawk stepped primly onto his leather gauntleted wrist. They stepped forwards out of the barn, into the bright morning sunlight, while Garth stared after him open mouthed, stricken unusually speechless.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	9. Chapter 9

Garth was nervous about visiting the town, but he would rather spend his time in Dean’s company (and Sam’s, he reminded himself, even if he was currently a bird) than sitting on his own in the barn and fretting. Interesting things seemed likely to happen around the Winchesters, and curiosity won out over trepidation. Besides, he had Dean’s word that he would protect him, and short of marching right up to them and casting yet another spell over Garth’s head, it seemed unlikely Alastair could do much; if he could do anything, now that they had his spell book. He would be wanting that back, Garth knew, but he would have to go through the knight to get it, and if this bishop had half the common sense he was born with, he would give Dean a wide berth. The man’s fingers never strayed far from his sword hilt, even while riding, and there was a new set to his shoulders and firm, angular jaw that suggested he was ready for a fight.

The market was bustling and they were forced to dismount. They made a curious procession as the tall, handsome young warrior led his black horse by the reins, hawk proud on his wrist like some kind of icon held aloft, turning its head this way and that to glare about the crowds with the flat, gold discs of its eyes. Garth hung back a little, his hand on Baby’s withers, enjoying the spectacle of people gawking and pointing. He noticed that, in general, people seemed quite respectful, bobbing their heads and touching their forelocks as they passed; and from the occasional muttered ‘Winchester’ he heard, it seemed that Dean did not go unrecognised. For his part, the knight soldiered on through the crowds, nodding back or occasionally offering a swift, tight smile but otherwise doing little to show that he noticed the attention; and Garth could tell from his posture that he was becoming tenser by the moment.

Finally, the knight ducked to the side and pulled Baby, with Garth following, down a narrow side street behind a row of market stalls.

“I hate it when it’s busy like this,” he muttered. “Can’t go ten paces with a horse, let alone the damn hawk, without attracting attention. If you could stay here, just for a few minutes, while I slip out and make my purchases..?” He left the plea hanging, but flashed a smile so full of charm that Garth could not resist.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said, “but are you sure Sam will stay with me?”

“Reasonably certain,” Dean replied. “The hawk isn’t fond of crowds either.” He stressed the word ‘hawk’ as though in mild reprimand for using his name, and Garth nodded and hurried to say “Sorry, yes; the hawk. I hope you are right!”

“Just put the glove on, here, like so…” Dean carefully slipped off his gauntlet, encouraging Sam - the hawk! - to move onto his arm, wincing a little as the sharp claws dug through his shirt sleeve. Garth hurriedly donned the glove and then held out his hand for the bird to step onto. It bobbed down and hissed at him silently, beak agape and feathers fluffed.

“Come on now,” Dean said, gently; “don’t be so foolish. You know Garth, and I will not leave you for long. Here, take this;” and he dug in the pouch that hung at his belt and handed Garth a small parcel, a ragged scrap of untanned hide wrapped around a few strips of dried meat.

Garth managed to coax the hawk onto the glove by means of these appetising morsels, but it paused with one foot clutched around its snack to watch as Dean turned and made his way back to the market. The hawk gave a single, mournful cry and turned its head to stare balefully at Garth with one shining eye.

“I know, I know,” Garth murmured, “but he’ll be back soon, and it’s quieter here. Just eat your jerky; what is it, rabbit? And we’ll stay here, leaning against this wall, to wait. See, Baby doesn’t mind, do you girl?” and he reached out with his free hand to stroke the horse’s ears. She whickered and shook her head, then nosed Garth’s shoulder, mumbling his collar with broad, velvet lips.

“I’m sorry, he didn’t give me anything for you,” Garth told the mare. “You’ll just have to hope your master doesn’t forget to come back with a bag of oats; but if I were you, if he does, I’d show him just how inconsiderate he is with his favouritism!”

The hawk went back to tearing at the strip of jerky in its claws and Garth marvelled at how light it was on his arm for such a large bird. To him, that was the greatest mystery of the spell; man to wolf was not such an untoward transformation, but to change a man the size of Sam, every day, into a creature that weighed so little was a wonder. He put out a finger to stroke the silky plumage on the bird’s head, but it mantled its wings in reproach and snapped at him before going back to the jerky.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said, jerking back his hand. “You’re right, that was over-familiar of me, and I apologise. I’m just becoming so used to Jessamyn here; Baby-girl loves a scratch, don’t you, my beauty?”

He reached back to give the mare the attention she craved, and was so absorbed with both animals that he didn’t notice a trio of young children come racing into the alley, until they stampeded past him, laughing and chattering. Jess, spooked, threw up her head with a snort and stamped her hooves in alarm; Garth staggered and stuck out his other arm for balance. The hawk screamed, spread wide its wings, and leapt into the air. It flew straight as an arrow between the walls of the alleyway, heading away from the market and towards who knew what; and Garth, cursing and stumbling and dragging at the horse’s reins, took off after it. He couldn’t lose Sam; the very first time Dean entrusted him with his little brother! His heart thumped in his chest and his eyes pricked with tears as he berated himself for his carelessness.

Luckily Jessamyn, who probably wasn’t too fond of the alley’s narrow confines after her scare, seemed eager to follow him; if the horse had balked, he didn’t know what he would have done. Sam was Dean’s brother, but to leave the horse, along with the best means for saving them both… no, he couldn’t have done it. Now, he trotted along as fast as he could without hurting Dean’s Baby, keeping an anxious eye on the dark shape which swooped along ahead of him. He prayed that it would keep flying straight and not veer upwards into the sky. The alley was not very long and he still had the hawk in sight as it burst through the other end, out into a square or some other kind of large, open space. Garth almost leapt from the alley as he turned, shading his eyes against the sudden bright sunshine to follow the bird’s progress… and stumbled to a dead halt, staring stricken.

There in the middle of a wide swathe of cobbles, towering over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, rose the lofty spires and flying buttresses of Winchester Cathedral, the limestone gleaming as white as bone in the sunlight. The hawk flew straight towards the great window that covered the western facade, as though he had every intention of breaking his way through one of the forty or so mullioned tiers of stained glass that glittered like a rainbow of ice. Garth clapped his free hand over his mouth and thought his heart must skip a beat or several, as he watched Sam soar upwards, helpless to stop him. The small, dark dart shrank as it neared the gleaming wall; arced upwards; and shot free into the sky, barely grazing (as it seemed from a distance) the statue of St Swithun which hung above the gable in its fretted mount, gazing tranquilly down over his city.

Garth drew in a deep, shuddering breath and nearly buckled at the knees, but had the presence of mind to continue watching the hawk as it turned and looped back around the square. As it passed him, high overhead and circling back towards the edifice, he heard it call out in a shrill, wavering scream. Immediately afterwards, as though the cry was a herald’s trumpet, he heard a woman’s voice proclaiming, loudly and passionately, out in the centre of the square. Her tone was strident yet lilting, with a strange, almost musical accent, and he found it so arresting he was forced to divide his attention, his eye on the bird while his ear was on the lady.

“Hear ye, hear ye, people of the good city of Winchester!” she cried, rolling the name along her tongue as though savouring its taste. “The time is nigh; a great conjunction of the heavens is upon us. Three days hence, as the Lord and the Lady come together in their great dance, the skies will darken as though night were come upon us, in the very middle of the afternoon.”

Garth, astonished, glanced down from Sam’s spiralling track around the square to catch a glimpse of this mystical soothsayer. She stood in line with the great doors of the cathedral, her arms held high above her head, a slender figure in a dark green gown. He could not make out her features from this distance, but her hair shone in an aureole around her bare head, as red as flame. 

“Aye, you may not believe me,” she went on, as Garth turned his face back up to the sky and anxiously sought the hawk’s arrowing flight, “but heed me on this: three days from now the sun itself will bear witness to my prophecy. But be not alarmed, good citizens..! This is a portent, not of woe, but of great change and opportunity. As they allow us all to witness their communion, the Great Gods shall bring balance to the world; it is a time when the old, established order may be toppled, when wrongs may be righted and sins redressed with the promise of good faith. Hearken to me, people of Winchester, and follow my call so that you may find salvation, at the hour when day becomes night and night consumes the day, when the Lord and Lady of the Greening welcome the faithful into their dance and her children return to the loving protection of their mother’s bosom. I will be there to usher in the new age of enlightenment, offering my prayers within the sacred grove outside the city, at the blasted oak you call the gods’ tree. Three days hence, when the moon’s shadow threatens to consume the sun, fear not! But come to me at the appointed place, rejoice with me and swear your allegiance to the Old Gods, and the Lord and Lady will forgive and embrace all.”

Once more, as though to sign off the proclamation, the hawk’s thin cry spooled out over the crowd who had inevitably gathered. Garth had been watching him the whole time, though listening in rapt amazement to the oracular (and decidedly blasphemous) speech, and now he witnessed with his heart in his throat as the bird swooped down from his circuit of the square and dove straight for the auburn haired speaker. 

It wasn’t an attack. At the last moment, the lady threw out her arm before her and the hawk alighted on her wrist as daintily as a songbird. She laughed in delight and drew the bird nearer to her face without fear, murmuring something Garth could not catch. He looked around frantically, wondering if Dean had chanced anywhere near the square during all this, and spied the bishop’s man, Fredric, strong-arming his way through the crowd towards the prophetess in the company of several armed and burly fellows.

Garth swore and readied himself to converge on the men, whether to warn the oracle or protect Sam he wasn’t sure, but with no thought to his own safety. But the murmuring crowds were too dense, he could not get near in time without spooking Jessamyn or risking someone being injured by the horse, and he was forced to stay still and watch, helplessly.

The captain of the bishop’s guard reached the woman and gesticulated angrily. She stood tall and proud, holding the hawk out before her like some divine augur of nature from the old stories, the fair enchantress Viviane who learned her arts from Merlin before sealing him within the trunk of a hawthorn. Garth would not have been astonished if she had called lightning from the heavens at that very moment, though there was barely a cloud in the sky, to strike the impudent soldier down.

What actually happened was that another man shouldered his way through the crowd to her side, and put out his hand to forestall the guardsman. 

“Oh great,” Garth muttered to himself, as all his potential enemies lined up in one spot. The newcomer, dressed all in black and commanding despite his short stature, was none other than Crowley, the Sheriff of Winchester. If Garth were discovered here, it was between the pan and the fire as to whether he’d be taken in by the bishop’s man or the city’s marshall of the law. Neither prospect endeared itself to Garth in the slightest, but if he did nothing, and allowed Sam to be taken…

Voices were being raised now and Garth focused his attention again upon the little group in the middle of the square.

“But she is a heretic!” cried Fredric, Alastair’s man, “and dares to ply her filthy lies under the very eaves of the cathedral, the wicked harlot. She must answer to the bishop for her sins.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Crowley answered smoothly, “but as an instigator of rebellion, she breaks the city’s peace, and that brings her securely within my remit. The lady will come with me, and your master may visit her in the cells if he wishes to make any... personal denunciation.”

“The bishop is the highest ecclesiastical authority in the city,” countered the captain, sounding shocked. “I protest that he has the greater eminence in this case.”

“Take it up with his lordship Sir John, by all means,” Crowley dismissed him with a bored wave of one black gloved hand. “But in the meantime, get out of my way while I perform my officially sanctioned duty.”

With that, he closed his hand about the arm of the woman in green; the arm that was not holding the bird aloft; and ushered her away across the square, while Fredric fumed impotently in his wake. Garth was just beginning to feel the stirrings of real panic when the lady flourished her arm and launched the hawk into the air. It screamed and thrashed its chestnut wings in a powerful flurry that scattered the nearby members of the crowd, rising up to hover over the square for a moment; then screamed again and hurtled straight towards Garth. He threw up his own hand, wearing the falconer’s glove, but the bird dove past him and he heard a familiar, gravelly chuckle. Garth turned to see Dean standing just behind him, Sam perched upon his shoulder and nibbling at his ear as though in apology for his recent escapade.

“It seems I have missed out on some adventures,” the knight said to Garth, without apparent anger, but his gaze was cool and appraising.

“I’m sorry, truly,” Garth blurted, hanging his head. “I should have been more careful, but some children ran past and spooked Jess, and in the confusion he took off… I did follow him, and kept my eyes upon him at all times, I swear it! I do not know what attracted him to the lady in green, but I suppose we must be thankful. If I had lost him, I…” He could not bear to finish the thought.

“Don’t fret yourself over it,” Dean said, reaching to stow the packages he carried within the horse’s saddlebags. “He flies free and has no master, you know the why of it now; and he always returns to me in time. No fault of yours the mare was skittish, either; I should have known better than to tuck her away in such narrow confines. She is a warhorse and likes to be able to maneuver; nobody backs my Baby into a corner, do they, girl?” He gave her a rough, friendly pat on the neck.

The mare nuzzled at his hair and Dean plucked her reins from Garth’s hand, grinning. Garth felt dizzy with relief that he was not, after all, in trouble with this man, whom he had come to like and admire, for all that he could be intimidatingly intense at times. Suddenly, he became aware that they were not alone. Frustrated in his efforts to arrest the witch, the bishop’s man had made his way over to their little group and stood there now, arms folded over his chest, glaring.

Dean turned to face the man and raised an eyebrow. “Can I be of assistance?” he asked with frigid politeness.

Lehner nodded his head curtly in Garth’s direction. An ugly weal ran down his cheek, the flesh raised and reddened where the hawk’s claws had dug in during its assistance in Garth’s flight.

“That boy is a criminal,” he growled, “and should be released into my custody.”

“I was not aware that he had done anything wrong,” Dean answered, lightly. The two men locked stares as though something more personal occurred here between them than a simple confrontation of authority. Garth looked back and forth between them, holding his breath, but placing all his trust in his newfound patron.

“He has stolen from the bishop,” the man replied with gritted teeth, “and he, along with the pilfered property, must be returned so that justice can be met.”

“I would like to speak with your master about justice,” Dean said, still with the same lightness of tone, but the air around him seemed almost to crackle with the energy of his focus and disdain.

Fredric, too, seemed to feel the hidden threat, and shuffled his feet, looking discomfited; but he stood his ground. 

“His Grace does not wish to meet with you,” he grated, and sneered as he somehow managed to make the pronoun sound like an insult. He didn’t quite spit on the ground, but Garth could tell he wanted to. “Just hand over the boy, and the book, and there need be no unpleasantness.”

Dean stiffened and drew breath, his nostrils flaring, at this explicit mention of the book; so they were on the right track, after all!

“What book is this you speak of?” he asked, all pretend innocence. “Describe it to me, and I will look out for it. You may be sure that I would never countenance the theft of a holy book,” he placed deliberate emphasis on the word ‘holy’, and Garth watched in fascination as the captain winced, “but if he ever took such a thing, my friend does not have it now.” He also emphasised ‘friend’, which warmed Garth right down to his toes.

“You name him friend?” Fredric asked, contemptuously. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at the company you keep; thief is considerably higher in esteem than a vagabond knight of such… repute as yours.” This time he did spit, letting a big gob of drool slip lazily from his lips to splash upon the cobbles at Dean’s feet.

Dean switched the reins into his left hand and crossed the right casually over his body to rest on his sword hilt.

“If all you have to trade with me are insults,” he said pleasantly, “then I bid you good day. Please send your master my… regards, and tell him that I look forward to meeting him. Soon.”

“There is another matter,” the guard captain snarled in desperation, as he clearly felt his advantage slipping. “That… abomination,” he stabbed a finger at the hawk, “attacked me, when you helped the thief escape my rightful grasp.”

Dean drew himself up and blazed with sudden, contained fury, so that Fredric cringed back. “Do not call him that,” he hissed, his voice deadly, “do not even speak of him, or look at him, or I may be unable to contain myself. He sought only to protect me, as you gave chase,” his voice at once became calmer and he loosened the white-knuckled grasp he had upon his sword, “and if his animal understanding mistook your intent, then the blame for that can be laid squarely at your master’s feet, not mine. You know you are under orders not to interfere with the bird, so what would you have me do?”

“I demand restitution for the injury, as is my right!” the man whined. “Besides, you also shot three of my best dogs. I am owed compensation.”

“Take it up with my father,” Dean said, coldly. “You may tell him I sent you; I am sure he will give your case due consideration and treat you with the fairness you deserve. Now get out of my sight; and when you go crawling back to your master, tell him that he is not the only man who can read!”

With that, Dean whirled and strode off across the square, Jessamyn in tow, and Garth almost tripped over his own feet in trying to keep up. As they walked away, the hawk turned its head right around on its shoulders to peer back at the impotent guardsman, glaring balefully from eyes like polished coins.

“I take it the captain knows all about it,” Garth suggested tentatively.

“I am sure he thinks he does,” Dean muttered through clenched teeth. “Whatever he knows, he is Alastair’s right hand man, and licks at his boot heel. He would love to cause me to strike him down, so that they would have real testimony against me, to stir up even greater trouble for my father.”

“I got the impression it was more than him acting the faithful dog for his master,” Garth prodded carefully. “It seemed to me that there was something personal between you; have you some unfinished business with the man? You seemed happy enough when Sa- when the hawk dove upon him.”

“He used to be a soldier in my father’s service,” Dean answered, his tone clipped and emotionless. “Never destined to rise far in the ranks; he was a liar and a bully, though a competent swordsman. He sowed dissension at every opportunity and we had to let him go; I think it rankled. He joined Alastair not long after… it happened.” He did not have to elaborate upon what he meant by that. “Now, he is a frequent thorn in my side, with his jibes and insinuations, running to the bishop with every juicy tale he can ferret out. The man is more a rat than a dog! I expect the bird mistook him for his dinner,” he joked.

“You don’t like to name him, do you?” asked Garth, gathering confidence, after a swift glance around showed that there was no one near. Dean looked back over his shoulder, meeting Garth’s abashed but frank gaze with his own, cool and steady.

“Would you?” was all he replied, before turning back to face the direction they were walking, and Garth could find nothing to say to that. 

“Will Fredric go to see your father?” he asked instead, to change the subject. Dean snorted.

“He has the right,” he answered, “and my father is a just man, he would pay. But no, I don’t think he will take me up on the offer.”

They had exited the cathedral square by now, and were walking casually along the main street of the city. Dean seemed in a free and easy mood despite; or because of; his altercation with Alastair’s guard captain, so Garth thought it safe to press him further.

“Did you hear the lady’s foretelling?” he asked, thinking to himself that it had sounded very pertinent to Dean’s case. All that about day and night becoming one and the world in balance, the redressing of wrongs, seemed to echo the wording of the spell, and the way Sam (yes, I will name him, to myself!) he thought fiercely, (he deserves to be named!) had flown to her, when he barely tolerated any hand but Dean’s, was surely an omen of some import.

Dean merely made a non-committal humming noise.

“It seemed… significant to me, almost prophetic?” Garth persisted. “If it comes to pass as she stated, then don’t you think that could be the very window of opportunity for-”

“No,” Dean interrupted him curtly, “I don’t think a mad woman’s ravings will come to pass. What was all that nonsense about the moon eating up the sun? Such things only happen in fireside tales and at the bottom of a tankard. I know Rowena, she is a witch of some renown in these parts; chiefly for stirring up trouble. Her ambition rivals Alastair’s, for all that it strives in the opposite direction; if more people took her seriously, she would be a dangerous woman.”

“But she spoke of the Lord and Lady, the same powers called upon by the spell!” Garth could not be shaken of his certainty that there was some link here they ought to pursue.

“If the Lord and Lady exist,” Dean growled, “and had a hand in what was done to us, then I am not keen to throw myself upon their mercy.”

“If she is a witch,” Garth argued, “and a rival to Alastair, then surely she is your best ally! We could show her the book and ask her help, or pay for it; whatever price she asks would be no object, surely? She would be the best person to know how to break the spell, perhaps even the one to do it-”

Dean rounded on him, exasperated, bringing them both up short in the middle of the street while Sam flapped his wings and let loose an indignant squawk at the sudden change in motion.

“You know nothing of which you speak,” he said in a low, forbidding tone. “I tell you, Rowena is no friendly hedge-mother to whom the village wives turn for help with their ailing children and their barren milch cows. She would be as like to have laid the sickness on them in the first place, in revenge for some slight, or to increase her trade. Clearly you have not heard of her, but her reputation precedes her widely, and to place ourselves in her debt would be to step willingly into the jaws of a trap. I will not do that to my brother, not merely on the whim of her self-proclaimed ‘prophecy’. Likely she and Alastair are in league, did you think of that? One might wonder whence he obtained the book.”

“I would have thought one such as you would think better of listening to idle gossip of disrepute,” Garth said hotly, thinking back to Fredric’s slurs. It was inconceivable to him that there could be any substance to whatever the man had insinuated; he had not known Dean long, but well enough to be sure that his character was beyond reproach, yet such was the evil in maliciously wagging tongues. He meant only that Dean should not treat the witch-woman in the same way Alastair’s minion treated him; but the knight seemed to take his words in quite another, and sorely wounding, manner.

The colour drained from Dean’s cheeks and he recoiled, making Sam fuss and flap again upon his shoulder, and his hand went instinctually to his sword hilt.

“One such as I?” he repeated, with sneering venom that made Garth quail. His mouth and eyes were hard and pinched as he went on, “Yes, you can trust that I know the value of gossip, better than most; and before you go putting that red haired witch on a pedestal, you should be aware that height only makes for a harder fall for your heroes. Now I will hear no more on this; come, I wish to be out of this blasted city, there is nothing good for us here.”

He turned and strode off, Jess picking up her steps almost to a trot to keep up with him, but for several moments Garth just stood and stared. He realised that most of Dean’s anger had been directed inward, upon himself; but he hadn’t the faintest notion why. He certainly wasn’t going to risk the man’s wrath by asking any more impertinent questions.

Garth shook himself and ran to make up the distance growing rapidly between them. As he reached the mare’s swishing tail, the hawk leapt from Dean’s shoulder and rose up into the sky like an inverted thunderbolt, trailing a long, mournful cry as though to voice his disappointment in both their foolishness. Neither man said anything else; and it was a long, dispirited trek back to the little steading in the woods where the poor farmer was no doubt torn between the boon of their coin and the fear of meeting the wolf again.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	10. Chapter 10

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246952/in/album-72157714923289397/)

They had mended the fences between them by the time the sun started slipping down the sky and they lit a fire and made their early evening meal from the fresh provisions Dean was happy to share. Baby munched contentedly beside them on the fresh oats he had not forgotten, and Sam slumbered on his perch, replete with one of the farmer’s chickens, to guess from the tell-tale feathers scattered in the yard about the barn. Garth did not bring up the subject of Rowena, nor the spell, nor anything to do with the brothers’ strange affliction. He was waiting for night, and Sam, whose point of view he felt it was not just fair but crucial to obtain.

As the light faded outside, Garth expected Dean to take Sam out into the woods, as before, but the knight made no move to leave, though his fidgeting increased as the evening drew in. They had been comfortable enough for the past couple of hours for Garth to enquire, hesitantly, whether he could measure the oncoming change in ways more precise than simply guessing by the gathering shadows.

“I can feel it,” Dean answered, “like an itch beneath my skin, and a growing restlessness. It is as though something were stirring within my blood, that longs to escape. You have seen a dog when it sleeps, how it whines and twitches, the legs moving as though to mirror running through its dreams?”

Garth nodded, wide eyed.

“It is something like that,” Dean explained, “only the dog; the wolf; dreams inside me. I do not know if it is similar for my brother; you can ask him. I thought… since you know our curse… you might not be afraid to witness the change? It is something of a nuisance to have to leave our clothes under a bush.” 

He spoke diffidently, which might be due to embarrassment, but Garth rather thought it more entreaty than favour. It occurred to him that he might be the very first person to behold such a wonder, after Alastair of course, and that he could then relate what he had seen to the brothers, who might not retain the clearest picture while undergoing the process themselves. 

“I… I’d be honoured,” Garth stammered, feeling only mildly terrified at the thought of watching witchcraft take effect before his very eyes. Not to mention that he would then be confronted by a wolf, who might take issue with such unaccustomed scrutiny, though he hoped that Sam would recover quickly enough from his own transformation to control the creature. 

“Does it hurt?” he thought to ask then, thinking that pain might serve to rile the wolf and cause it to lash out.

“No; not precisely,” Dean answered, looking thoughtful. “At least not in the changing back; I can never remember the initial transformation. I think… from the first time I saw it happen to Sam… and those few glimpses I have managed to catch as we change together, in the morning… that it is not altogether a pleasant experience. But it does not take long, and is not so horrible to watch as you might assume.” He smiled wryly as he met Garth’s eyes across the fire, seeming to guess the cause of his anxiety. “I hunt werewolves for a living, and worse; you can rest assured that whatever the curse makes of us, we are not monsters. I do not think you will be in any danger from the wolf, providing that you take care not to come between us. We can be… protective of one another, as you have seen.”

“And now,” he said, stretching as he rose to his feet, “it is time. Watch closely, if you dare at all; the process is as swift as breathing.”

He undressed, deftly and without a trace of embarrassment, throwing his clothes and sword belt carelessly onto a nearby bale of hay. The firelight flickered over the muscular planes of his flesh like the light of the setting sun, whose imminent departure would conjure rough fur and the snout and tail of a beast from the smoothness of human skin. He crossed to check outside the open door, then crouched down, facing the fire. Sam hopped off his rail and bobbed comically across the floor to join him, head down and wings held stiffly at an angle as though making an obeisance.

Garth drew his knees up to his chin, hugging himself and staring wide eyed, waiting for whatever would happen. Suddenly, and without fanfare, a blue light shone out around the man and the bird, like the full moon upon snow but brighter, and seeming to come from within them somehow. The light grew, spreading and pulsing, then coalesced, spiraling out and around them in a chain like will o’ the wisps of the marsh. The little globes of blue fire streamed and danced, faster and faster, until the two figures were wrapped in a whirling tower of eerie radiance.

Dean threw back his head, baring his teeth in a grimace, and slammed his hands to the floor so that he knelt upon all fours; at the same time, Sam threw wide his wings and his beak gaped in a soundless scream. The next part happened so quickly that Garth could never remember more than a fleeting and bewildering impression, as the hawk unfolded before his eyes, becoming a man like a sprouting seed whose growth were somehow sped up to take place all within a minute; and a wolf formed around the man as frost rimes the branches of a tree in winter, fur and face and ears lengthening, pushing out as eagerly as unfurling shoots in spring.

There was one moment he would not forget, right at the centrepoint of the exchange, when the two crouched facing one another in perfect suspension between the forms they were changing into and those they were discarding. Man-bird and wolf-man both had human eyes at this juncture, and Garth watched as their gazes locked. Each lifted a hand (a wing-tip? A paw?) towards the other, that could not quite touch for the speed of the transformation; and though it lasted the merest heartbeat, he saw clearly the raw, agonised longing that burned in those eyes as they met and held and clung to what they saw. Everything they had, all that they could sustain between them, was enshrined within that moment. The intensity and the anguish of it closed Garth’s throat and stung his own eyes with sympathetic tears, and then the process continued inexorably to its conclusion. One pair of eyes changed like leaves from summer green to autumn gold, and Sam crouched, naked and fully human, before a great grey wolf which shook itself, and panted, put back its ears, and whined.

Sam’s hand stayed where it had changed, half outflung, but he hesitated as though he could not quite bring himself to touch the wolf. He looked over his shoulder to follow Dean’s uneasy gaze and spotted Garth crouching beyond the fire, trying to make himself as still and small as possible.

Sam smiled over at him, in a weary but welcoming manner. “Dean thought you should witness the change, I take it,” he said. “I hope you are not too frightened by what you have seen? I am glad he agreed to confide in you; it is a lonely business, wandering the world like this with nobody to share our cares.”

He stood up and went to ferret in the saddlebags for his clothes, then picked up Dean’s cast-offs and folded them absent-mindedly before buckling on the sword belt. The wolf sat on its haunches, watching them both with narrowed, yellow gaze.

“May you not confide in your father?” Garth asked, tentatively. He, too, was keeping a wary eye on the wolf; Dean had warned him not to come between them, but Sam was moving around without a care and who knew what an animal would consider too close, and react accordingly?

Sam stilled for a moment, his long hair hanging down to conceal his features, but he looked tense. “This… curse… has been the undoing of our father,” he said at last, quietly. “We find it easier to go our own way than worry him unduly. He stands by us should we have need, it is… enough. We may wander like vagrants but we are not outcast. Now.” He looked up again and smiled, a taut, feral grin. “Tell me of what occurred today, between you and Dean; did you discuss the spell? What did you both make of it?”

“Won’t you eat first?” Garth enquired, not exactly stalling; but he was starting to understand how the brothers worked together, Dean going out to gather provisions which he would then share scrupulously between them. They had made a good meal of his most recent purchases and left plenty for Sam, and he wanted him to enjoy the food while it was still fresh.

Sam looked at the bread, dried meat, cheese and onions laid out on a piece of sacking and frowned. “Usually I… come to myself hungry,” he said thoughtfully, rubbing his stomach, “but for once food is not uppermost on my mind.”

Garth suddenly remembered the chicken feathers. “Ohhh, I think… you ate well earlier, you know. When you were…” He grimaced and shrugged, not knowing a tactful way to convey the situation; besides, Sam would be in no doubt.

Sam laughed, and hunkered down beside the fire. “I was greedy, I think you mean, were you not too polite to say it,” he said. He gathered the meat from his impromptu plate and gestured to the wolf, tossing it over to him once he had his attention.

“Dean is always greedy,” he smiled, as the wolf jumped to his feet and gobbled up the scraps. “He was always fond of his food… back when… did he say how long we have been afflicted?”

“I think he said some years; four, was it?” Garth answered, the look the two had shared as they changed still fresh in his mind and likely to haunt him forevermore, if they could not find a way to fix this.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sam said, picking at his piece of cheese. He frowned again. “I know it does not seem so long a stretch, but I was… barely a man when it happened, just nineteen years of age. Dean has the lead on me by four. He will be nearing thirty now and much can change in a man in that span of life, even across so short a time. I wonder, sometimes, how much he is altered, or whether I would even recognise him; or he me. Does he…” he glanced at Garth, shyly, then ducked his head and began playing with a piece of bread, tearing it into crumbs but not eating any. “Is he still handsome? He used to draw the eye of every girl within the castle, aye, and the married women too! - But he never cared for any of that.” 

A small, secret smile hovered about his lips and he tried to hide it, perhaps, by eating some more, though he really didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. Garth noticed, however, that Sam avoided looking at the wolf throughout their conversation. Dean, meanwhile, seemed to be growing accustomed to his presence - after all, Garth reasoned, he might not think like a man but he still knew him and must surely feel some lingering trace of the trust he had placed in him as a man - and had lain down on the floor like a dog, watching still, but panting softly so that his tongue lolled wetly between gleaming teeth.

“He is a good looking man,” Garth reassured Sam, “tall and strong and a soldier born, though you have the advantage of him now a little, in height at least. He is not a man I would deem it wise to cross, but equally he is first among those I am honoured to call friend. He saved my life, or at least my freedom, when he did not even know me; when I ran from Lehner, the bishop’s guard, after stealing the book. He and Fredric… seemed to have some history between them,” he probed lightly. “He said that the man used to be in your father’s employ, but was thrown out for a trouble maker; I wondered if much of that trouble was over Dean himself, as he seemed to hold such a low opinion of him, which surely Dean never did anything to deserve? But perhaps it is just that he knows of the curse, and is afraid. He called you names too; well, the hawk; but he seemed to know what he was talking about. I am sorry, I should not have said anything.”

Sam waved it off with little obvious concern. “He hates us both,” he admitted readily, “and I do not know of any valid reason, excepting that Dean always was, as you say, an honourable man, and would side with the other guardsmen when Fredric tried to ply his tricks. Who knows what more he has learned since joining the bishop’s retinue. So you met once more with the rogue? That must have been exciting for you; but since you are here to tell the tale, I take it Dean took you to shelter under his wing, and I have no doubt that rankled sorely with the man.”

So Garth told Sam all about their shopping expedition, about losing him when Jess took fright, and the events which happened afterwards in the great square before the cathedral, including as much as he could remember of Rowena’s prophetic speech.

“And Dean translated the spell for me,” he finished, “so I am sure that what she said matches too well with the book to be mere coincidence; but he will have none of it, he holds that her reputation is well-founded and that you have little reason to trust her. He became very angry when I pressed him, so I dared not say more, but resolved to speak with you about it.”

“Dean is no great lover of witch-kind,” Sam said, slowly, darting a look towards the now sleeping wolf as he spoke. “He and I have exchanged some few opinions, by way of the journal, and he has always been most adamant about them. He finds them unsavoury, always meddling with body parts and noxious substances.”

“And of course,” Garth interjected, “there is your curse; which surely seems a witch’s spell, or so Dean thought. I can see why that would set him against them.”

“That’s true,” Sam answered, “but there are witches and witches; I think it something more, and if I am honest, I think it at least in part my fault.” He grimaced, and sighed, pushing aside his barely touched food and wrapping his long arms about his legs to try to get comfortable on the hard packed earthen floor of the barn.

“There was a witch we met,” he went on to explain. “I made a deal with her, to obtain some spellwork she laid on our - on the sword, and Dean did not… He was not altogether happy with the terms of our trade.” He huffed a soft laugh. “He is ever the older brother, protective even when I am well able to look out for myself, and I think he thought that she had taken advantage of me. You know, by use of her magical wiles. But I made my offer willingly and full knowing, and I believe she held up her end of the bargain. In any event, Rowena is not Ruby, though she is likely even more powerful and Dean is wise to be cautious; but what she said today is interesting. I, too, think it more than chance that a witch of her skill should come out in public, to speak of an astronomical event which meets so closely with the conditions of the spell that binds us.”

“Dean thought she might be in league with Alastair and trying to entrap you, now that you have the book,” Garth pointed out.

Sam shook his head. “I do not see it myself,” he argued, “those two working together. She has ever spoken out against the church and its religion, and for all he stoops to borrowing their arts, Alastair has no love of witches; he has no love of any who do not serve him and his purposes. I doubt even that he likes Lilith, whom he flatters as a fawning lapdog; she is but his conduit to power within the royal court, and he tolerates her only as far as she proves useful. If he ever rises as far as he aims, I mark that he will turn upon her, like a rabid dog. With what you heard in town today, and him sending his guard out to take Rowena, my guess is that he fears for her meddling in his spells; especially now that his own book of magic is missing.”

“So you really think there could be some link between her prophecy and the spell of transformation?” Garth asked, excitedly. “It sounded so fantastic, the moon covering the sun; could such a thing happen in nature?”

Sam smiled. “It sounds unreal, but such things happen,” he averred. “The stars and planets move in a stately dance about the earth, and every so often, the dancers align, like courtiers taking their place upon the floor. It is a rare event, but at times the moon eclipses the sun and throws its shadow all across the earth, so that in daytime it turns almost as dark as night. It has been chronicled, and reliably, by men of science, not only witches. Rowena knows her craft, and is as likely as any astrologer to have predicted such an occurrence. She will seek to use it to further her own ends, to sow dissension against the established order as you witnessed, but what if it should serve our ends, too? What was the wording in the book, do you have it..?”

Garth jumped up to retrieve the spell from the saddlebags and handed it to Sam, who perused it with a frown of concentration. 

“Yes, see here!” he exclaimed, forgetting in his excitement that Garth could not see anything besides the illustrations. He jabbed a finger at a meaningless jumble of squiggles, then seemed to recollect and read aloud. 

“It says here that the spell shall take hold, and likewise lose its grip, at the elemental crux of day and night. Was that not the exact wording Rowena used to describe the coming eclipse?”

Garth nodded, kneeling up to peer over Sam’s arm even though he could not understand the black lines of text, and forgetful of the wolf who slumbered on between the fire and the doorway.

“Yes indeed; and she called it the hour when day becomes night and night consumes the day,” he added, remembering the vivid description with utter clarity. “I thought at the time that it sounded germane. Do you think it could work? When the eclipse takes place, will the spell fail?”

“Maybe not forever,” Sam answered, “but I think it very likely for the duration. Crux of night and day - that well describes the points of sunrise and sunset, when our daily change takes place, and with the moon covering the sun, might that not effect a similar transformation?”

“Oh,” said Garth, thinking it through, “but might it not equally change Dean back into a wolf even as you change from the hawk, merely trading your places in the normal cycle?”

“It might,” Sam answered, “but I am hopeful; because of the rest of the proclamation. I know she was only about the upset of order and authority, with her call to the people to join her and switch faiths; but all that talk of balance and opportunity, and the righting of wrongs… Garth, I have to hope!” he cried suddenly, awaking the wolf to stare in startled puzzlement, “for what other chance do we have? Alastair has worked the spell most cunningly upon us both so that at no time may we come together as men; but all spells must have their loopholes and their counter, it is the way of magic. There must be balance, it is a law immutable; even the most powerful witch or warlock cannot circumvent it. I believe, no, I am sure of it; my flying to the witch is a powerful omen; that three days hence, the eclipse will happen just as she foretold, and at that hour our time will come. We will be men again, together for the first time in years, and able to seize our chance!”

He stared at Garth, his eyes shining in the firelight, his shoulders shaking as he gripped the book tightly between his huge yet gentle hands.

“Except what, exactly, is it that you intend to seize?” Garth queried with apologetic pragmatism. “I would think it the most obvious plan to go to the sacred grove as Rowena bade, and to meet with her there and cast yourselves upon her mercy. But she is currently in the charge of the sheriff, and not likely to be released to plot her little rebellion. He arrested her for disturbance of the peace, after all.”

Sam looked momentarily crushed, but hope, or resolve, flared anew and squared his shoulders. 

“Sheriff Crowley is subject to our father, when all is said,” he declared. “He cannot deny Dean an audience with a prisoner, even if he is reluctant to let her go. You must visit him on the morrow and speak with her, discover if there is any truth to our surmising. We have great leverage, with my father’s backing, to have her released; if not acquitted, at least on a temporary basis. If she can remove this spell then he will move heaven and earth to see it done, and neither the likes of Crowley nor Alastair himself will stand in his way. I would think she might be grateful enough for the respite, and what limited opportunity it may afford her, to grant us her assistance.”

“I like this plan,” Garth said, “but will Dean agree to it? He was uncommonly curt with me before, and seems to have acquired an emphatic dislike of the woman. He will need some convincing.”

“I will write to him,” Sam stated, “and do you entreat him to read my words and heed them. I will use every means at my disposal to bring him round. He is stubborn, but he listens to me; he has marked my advice on more than one occasion and he knows that I have studied a great deal of lore, including the mundane, the religious and the magical. Dean is clever, but he is not such a lover of books and scrolls as I, and he defers to my expertise; at least, he has been known to, when it does not altogether cross his will. We must hope that his antipathy towards Rowena is borne only out of prejudice, and not some history between them that I know not of.”

With that, Sam put away the spellbook, fetched the journal and his ink and quill, and settled down to write his missive. Dean, seeing him thus safely occupied, yawned and stretched and trotted out into the night about wolfish business of his own; and Garth had become so used to his presence and his equanimity that he barely registered the creature’s departure.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	11. Chapter 11

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50062430353/in/album-72157714923289397/)

After Sam had finished with the journal, and put away the uneaten food, he and Garth spent the evening chatting companionably about their respective adventures (though Sam’s were infinitely the more exciting, to Garth’s mind) before the younger man settled down to sleep. Sam said that he was not tired, and needed to stretch his muscles; he went outside to practise his sword strokes by the light of the moon, which was nearly full. The wolf made no reappearance while Garth was still awake, but crept into the barn a bare hour before dawn to lie down at his brother’s feet and await the coming sunrise.

As soon as he had changed and donned his clothes, Dean spotted the journal lying close to where his brother had slept, and picked it up to read.

_“Dearest brother,”_ Sam had written, after a short treatise - with diagrams - on the nature of eclipses as a natural phenomenon. _“Garth has related all that transpired in the city today, and we discussed the Book. What the witch foretells is no mere fantasy, but the real and present prospect of a solar eclipse. This may or may not affect a change in our usual circumstances; if it does, then we will have a window of mere hours, or maybe even minutes, in which to act. There are many points of comparison between the woman’s words and those which hold us prisoner against the desires of our hearts. You know the phrasing as well as I; suffice it to say that I believe we have a chance, and more than a chance, but if she cannot help us then we will have lost nothing. But if she holds the answer, then can any price for our salvation be too steep?_

_“I beg you only, brother, for the sake of my heart’s memory, to speak with her and determine whether or not she can assist. Do you go to Crowley and exhort him to grant you audience, for our father’s peace of mind should he resist. If she should prove amenable to our cause, then can we lean upon him to release her; we have two days to our convenience. It does not aid the witch to lie, we can keep close guard upon her until she fulfils our terms, and send her back to the dungeons if she plays us false. I know you entertain a great distrust of witches, and your reasoning is sound. I care little enough for that; what I care about is that in my dreams of late, your face grows distant and obscured, as though memory were a fickle stream that washes away all past impressions. I yearn to see you again with my own true eyes, and the mind behind them; and my flesh yearns to feel your touch as the barren fields in winter must pray for the solace of the sun._

_“You were, and shall ever be, the lodestone of my heart, and all that makes this torturous existence bearable; but I do not know how much longer I can endure, without hope of release. If this one chance should come to naught, then I would deem it kinder, brother of my blood and heart and soul, for you to pierce my feathered breast with the point of the silver dagger and so set me free. It may be that we shall find ourselves reunited in Heaven, by the grace of God and all his angels; better that chance, than to wend our weary way across this earth for decades more, without hope of ever holding you again within my arms, skin to human skin. Do this one thing for me, my beloved, that you may be spared the pain of the other. It is a slim chance, indeed, but better hope than none; and we must take the gamble, or forfeit all our right to happiness. I lay my trust at your feet and remain, whatever your decision, your ever loving Sammy.”_

Dean’s slamming closed the book startled Garth into instant wakefulness; the look on the knight’s face was thunderous and he saw the journal and made the obvious connection, wondering just what Sam had written there to rouse his brother’s ire.

“I’m going to see Crowley,” said the man without ado, his voice a growl to match his expression. “He’ll let me talk to the witch or he’ll regret it. But I will not risk Sam, or the book; Alastair knows what’s in the wind now, and it is too dangerous to take them back into the city. You must stay here to guard them, and keep shut the doors so that he will not fly away again and seek me out.”

His tone brooked no disobedience, but Garth was not inclined to any; he had noted how Dean referred to the hawk by name for the first time since their meeting, and was clearly in some great emotional distress. At least Sam had prevailed upon him to seek out the witch, as he had promised. He merely nodded his understanding and scrambled up from his bed to watch as Dean readied the mare.

There was a slight hitch to his plans as the knight made to exit the barn and Sam, clearly intent on keeping him company, swooped from his perch and landed on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, little hawk; not this time,” Dean murmured, stroking beneath the bird’s chin, and he carried him back to the railing.

“I will have to tie him,” he grimaced, “although it pains me to do so and he will hate it. But better than him falling into Alastair’s clutches, or to some wile of the sorceress. I should not be gone too long; I have no plans to linger. You are welcome to your breakfast while I am out.”

He proceeded to tear a thin strip of sacking with which to bind the bird’s feet, holding him to the rail so that he could jump about and have some freedom of movement still, but was unable to fly free. Sam objected to the treatment vehemently, as was to be expected, and struggled and screamed as though his captor meant him harm. He even tried to peck at Dean’s hands, causing him to swear and pull his knuckles to his lips, sucking at the blood which welled from a bright gash in his flesh; but his answer to that was to wrap the hawk deftly in the remainder of the sack so that he could work untroubled, and at last he had him secured. Sam’s struggles abated once the cloth was over his head, and Dean laughed ruefully and said,

“I should have thought of that sooner, but I am a falconer by necessity only, not experience. There, that will do; I am sorry, Sam, but it is for your own protection. I hope you will have forgiven me by the next time you have turned.”

He gingerly unwound the sacking and backed away, as the hawk hissed and lunged at him with malice bright in his eye, only to be brought up short by his new jesses. He shrieked again and fluttered vainly, but soon seemed to realise he was hobbled and subsided onto his perch, glaring and ruffling his feathers to let his displeasure be known.

“I would not go near him for a while if I were you,” Dean remarked, “and then only if you come amply prepared, bearing gifts.”

He hefted the saddlebags, containing the grimoire, and handed them to Garth.

“I entrust you with this spellbook, as I do my brother’s life,” he said gravely. “Keep them both safe for me. I will return as soon as I may.”

Then he looped Jessamyn’s reins about his wrist and departed the barn, leapt lithely into the saddle, and urged her into a swift trot away from the farmstead and towards the city.

“Well,” said Garth, staring at Sam, “I never thought reading such a worthwhile skill, but I would give a great deal to know what you said to put such fire into his belly! Let us hope he does not antagonise Rowena so much that she refuses out of simple spite.”

The hawk crouched upon his perch and stared balefully after his departing brother. He let loose a single, mournful cry then hunched his shoulders, burying his head between his wings.

Garth sighed. “I know, but he will soon return,” he consoled the bird. “Meanwhile, I have a few hours to while away and you, I think, were best left alone to nurse your grievance.”

He busied himself with hiding away the grimoire and the journal in the middle of a bale of hay, then tidied away the sleeping pallets and made himself a frugal repast. After that, he went out to look around the farm environs and gather some more firewood, making sure to shut the doors of the barn fast behind him. Sam seemed securely tethered, but there was no point in taking chances. He came upon the farmer mucking out his pigs and stopped to chat a while, thinking the poor man would feel easier if he knew the lineage of his guests. He apologised for the chicken their hawk had taken and reassured him that the wolf was tame; at least enough not to cause trouble if none were forced upon it.

“I had a feeling they might be nobility, when I took a look at that book,” the farmer divulged. “Beautiful it was,” he sighed, and shook himself. “Ah well, it’s naught for the likes of me, imagine; a thing like that, and me up to my ears half the day in pigshit! I’ll get the missus to bake a pie for their lordships’ dinner tonight, think that’ll suit?”

And that, thought Garth, was that; although he resolved to nudge Dean, or perhaps Sam, to slip a few more coins the farmer’s way for all his trouble.

He was back in the barn with the sulking hawk when Dean returned, earlier than expected and about as happy as when he had left that morning.

“She’s not there,” he said shortly, as he removed Baby’s saddle and settled her comfortably with a nosebag of oats in her makeshift stall, Sam pointedly ignoring him.

“Not there..?” Garth gaped, stricken. Now what were they to do?

“Crowley released her already,” Dean explained. “Apparently didn’t feel there was much reason to hold her, said he took her only to preserve the peace. I insisted on seeing the dungeons to be sure; he did not have her.”

“That… does not sound like the Crowley I know and avoid,” said Garth, dubiously. “Do you think she worked some kind of spell upon him?”

“I would not put it past her,” Dean replied, “but I also would not put it past Crowley to be up to some mischief of his own. He does not openly defy Alastair but the two do not see eye to eye, and I am sure he would relish any opportunity to put a spoke in the bishop’s wheel.”

“So now what are we to do?” Garth asked, wringing his hands. “Sam and I thought that the best course of action would be to wait for the eclipse and meet Rowena at the place and time appointed, then the two of you could present the book together and plead your case. That still seems a viable plan, don’t you think?”

Dean grunted, as he rubbed Baby down with a handful of hay. “My brother puts too much faith in this witch-woman,” he answered gruffly, “and so do you. We do not even know if she will keep her own appointment; she could have fled the city in fear of Alastair’s wrath, or Crowley might have pressured her to lie low.”

“She cannot be too afraid of Alastair,” Garth argued, “since she staged her proclamation right before the doors to his cathedral.”

Dean only grunted again and turned his attention to Sam. He approached the bird cautiously, with soothing sounds and hands held low and wide in appeasement. Sam suffered him to untie the strip of cloth without pecking or struggling; he seemed cast down in spirits and Garth worried that his short, but unaccustomed captivity had broken his fierce hawk spirit. But Dean coaxed him onto his arm with a treat of what looked like fresh liver, and nuzzled his feathered cheek with his nose while crooning nonsense endearments, and once he had gulped down his meal, the hawk climbed up to his shoulder and nibbled gently at his earlobe as though to show that all was forgiven. Then he jumped into the air, spread wide his wings, and sailed through the open door of the barn to test his renewed freedom.

Dean followed his brother’s flight with an expression that was hard to read, but mingled fondness and exasperation with the familiar gentle sorrow that both brothers wore as an habitual air.

“Even so,” he addressed Garth suddenly, returning to their earlier exchange as though no time had elapsed, “there is, I think, a surer way to pursue our rights, if this eclipse of Rowena’s does what my brother believes. We may be granted little time, and I would as lief not waste it in hunting down and appealing to the mercy of an unknown quantity.”

He leaned his shoulders against the railing and ran his fingers idly through Baby’s mane.

“Some other news Crowley had to give me,” he went on, “which is that Alastair intends to hold a ceremony of his own, to counter anything the witch might have planned for the coming spectacle. He is putting on a special service within the cathedral, and has issued a summons to all the faithful of the city, to attend and pledge their allegiance to God, who will protect his flock from every peril to be perceived in the skies. It is a public service, which he cannot bar us from attending; he will be there in person; and if Sam is right and we are able to present a unified appearance, with the book as evidence, then it will be our first and last chance to confront him and address his crime while the assembled multitude bears witness. It is Alastair, not Rowena, who cast this spell; and our best chance to force him to negate it. The book tells us that any competent minister may perform the ritual of redemption, and I can think of none more suited to the occasion than a bishop, indeed the very same who bound us.”

Garth had his private reservations about how easily they might force their enemy’s hand by such a confrontation; however, he could find no singular flaw in Dean’s reasoning. It was true that Rowena was an unknown quantity, and might not, even if they were to locate her, have the wherewithal to help them. He spent the rest of the day, therefore, refraining from further argument, intending to leave it to Sam to have the final say. It was, after all, the brothers’ problem, not his; he wanted to help, but the decision was between the two of them alone. They passed the early evening in companionable silence, the farmer’s wife’s pie serving to put Dean in a mellow mood.

Sam, when the night came round again, could not find much with which to argue against Dean’s judgement, either. “After all,” he put it to Garth, “if the bishop proves immovable, we may still have time to reach Rowena, if she holds court where she declared; and then we’ll have our second chance with her.”

His mood, too, seemed to have softened, having found Dean’s latest entry in their shared journal. He smiled over it while stroking the page with one finger, and Garth wondered again what words the two of them exchanged. It struck him anew how tragic and romantic was their plight, like the heroes of legend, always apart though physically they stayed so close. Spiritually, they were linked through the private messages they shared within the pages of a book; two lives, separate yet conjoined by a curling ribbon of ink.

The following day, their last before the ordained phenomenon, Dean declared that they should stay away from town, so as not to rouse anyone’s suspicions, or fall into trouble which could jeopardise their plans. He took the younger man on a hunting excursion into the woods, while Sam flew around in circles overhead, and taught him how to shoot a bow. Garth did not manage to hit so much as a tree, but he felt his progress was a little better than negligible, and Dean was enthusiastic in his praise. Garth guessed that he had once indulged his younger brother in this fashion, and felt rather privileged than patronised. 

Dean then brought down a brace of wood pigeons for their supper, while Sam feasted on a third he caught all by himself; but this time, it did not prevent him from partaking heartily of the remains of the pie, not to mention the half of a roast pigeon Dean left for him. It seemed to Garth that both brothers were relaxed, resigned almost; determined to play out this last day as normally as possible, and they did not mar their studied cheerfulness with any discussion of what was to come.

“What will be, will be,” Sam said to him philosophically, when he ventured to ask him, later that night, if he was still optimistic that their plans would go as they hoped. “We can do nothing now but wait,” the younger Winchester added, “and either God is on our side or Alastair’s; we cannot know until the morrow.”

He spent a great deal of time with the journal that night, hunched over by the fire as he pored through previous correspondence, handling the book as tenderly as he might an infant; and Dean seemed unusually reluctant to leave his side, though he did not quite approach him, but lay stretched out in the shadows beneath Jessamyn’s belly. To her credit, the horse stayed still and took every care not to catch the wolf with an errant hoof. They made a tranquil scene, the three of them, limned in the flickering light of the fire, and Garth felt a pang as he realised that whatever tomorrow brought, things were not likely to go on as they were. If they were successful in their mission, then they would presumably go back to their father and their childhood home; if not, then there would be little cause for them to stick around. Either way, he could not imagine a future for them that allowed much of him in it, and the prospect made him melancholy, on top of a mounting anticipation of what was to come. He was anxious for them, and he would miss them, and he realised that in a few short days and nights, he had made firm friends of these wandering, ensorcelled knights.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	12. Chapter 12

The following day dawned unpromisingly, with blustery weather and scuds of clouds that obscured the sun. Dean eyed them unfavourably as they set off for the city but when Garth asked in concern if the cloud cover would make a difference to the spell, he shrugged; a gesture made more noticeable by their close quarters in the saddle, Dean in front and Garth perched directly behind him.

“We change regardless of the weather,” the knight replied, “come rain or blizzard; it seems we need not see the sun for it to affect us. But I take the rain as a poor omen, and it will make it harder to know when the eclipse begins.”

“Won’t that be obvious by; well, when one or both of you transforms?” Garth queried.

He received another shrug. “We do not know truly how it will affect us, or at what point of the moon’s passage,” Dean pointed out. “We do not even know if the eclipse will come about at all. There are so many unknowns here; but what I do know is that Alastair will be at the cathedral, and if we are both men to confront him, so much the better; but if one or even both of us are beasts, even if it falls to you to make the accusation, he will have a hard time explaining himself, especially should the spell be changed. A man becoming a beast, or a beast becoming a man, in the sight of all those gathered will not be something they are likely to forget, nor easily forgive. Whether we find here our cure or no, I think today may prove the bishop’s downfall; and that, my friend, is what I pin my hopes on, not the wild predictions of a renegade witch.”

“If it falls to me to make the accusation?” Garth squeaked, in echo of the part of this speech which most caught his attention.

Dean grinned at him wickedly over his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully, “we are no more likely to transform into two beasts than two men, so I lay odds of less than fifty-fifty on it. Besides, if it should happen before we reach the cathedral, you may find yourself hard put to corral us where you will. Though I would give much to be in your shoes,” he continued, “to see the wolf let loose inside a church. I would likely go for Alastair’s throat,” he finished with grim zeal.

“Do not suggest such things!” Garth remonstrated, and smacked him across the shoulder blades. Dean just laughed.

By the time they reached the city, the weather was fairing up and the sun began to make a sporadic appearance between the racing clouds. Garth squinted up at it suspiciously. It was hard to tell for the ragged wisps that moved constantly across its face, but… was that an irregularity on the very edge of the shining disc, like a clipped coin? He tried not to look too long or too directly, but still managed to make his eyes water from puzzling it out. No change had as yet come over the brothers, however. Sam had flown around and above them as they made their way through the countryside, but once they passed the city walls, he came to land on Dean’s shoulder and hunched there quietly, as though ill at ease.

“Do you… sense anything?” Garth whispered.

“I have felt something for the past hour or more,” Dean replied, sombrely. “It is as though a vast shadow reaches over the landscape, darkening my eyes, and my blood is pulsing in my ears. The hawk feels it, too; look how he hunkers.”

“Have you seen the sun?” Garth asked, still whispering, bubbling with a nervous excitement that made the hairs on his neck prickle.

“Aye,” answered the knight, shortly. “The moon begins to nibble at the perimeter like a mouse with an oat cake. It seems that part of the witch’s prophecy has come true, at least.”

As though to underscore his statement, a great bell suddenly rang out, sonorous and slow; the cathedral bell, chiming across the city to call the faithful to mass. Garth looked furtively around him and although most of the passing crowds seemed blithely unaware of what was happening, he noticed one or two look up, shading their eyes, and frown, shaking their heads or hunching their shoulders as they whispered darkly to their companions. As Baby stepped sedately along the cobbled streets, the shadow at the edge of the sun grew larger and more obvious, and more and more people took notice. The mood of the crowd changed gradually, lowering like the air at the onset of a storm, and voices rose around them in a troubled muttering. Yet still there was no change in Dean or the bird riding his shoulder.

“Think you nothing will come of it, after all?” Garth murmured.

“I cannot tell, but I am not so sure,” Dean answered quietly back. “The feeling grows apace, and is like that which precedes the sunset, yet different. From what Sam described, it could take some hours for the shadow to pass over, but the moment of totality - when the moon’s round fully effaces the circle of the sun - will last only minutes. It is then, I suspect, that we will see the result of the conjunction, if any. How long it then will last is anybody’s guess. Long enough for us to do what must be done? We shall see.” And he fingered the pommel of his sword, to which his hand frequently strayed.

They were nearing the cathedral square by now, and many others streamed in the same direction, so that soon they were forced to dismount and lead Jessamyn on foot. Sam shrank close against Dean’s neck so that he looked like some grotesque deformity, or the plumed ruff of a cloak that had become squashed up all on one side, and even Baby was showing signs of disquiet, though that could be as much due to the pressing crowds and the deep clangor of the bell as any sense of the onrushing shadow.

Dean tethered the mare outside the cathedral, stroking her neck and speaking to her in hushed, soothing tones. He took a piece of cloth from his belt and tied it over her eyes to blinker her, “In case she takes fright at the coming darkness,” he explained to Garth, then readied a nosebag of oats to keep her occupied. The shadow had now grown so as to blot out a good quarter of the sun, rendering its customary circle into a bulging crescent like the horns of a bull; or a demon. It seemed to Garth as though, rather than the moon covering the sun, it was the sun which threatened to gobble up the moon, stretching wide in great, fanged jaws that might at any moment snap closed like the maw of a snake. He shivered, and resolved not to look any more; besides, bright spots were dancing across his vision and the glare pulsed in his temples in the beginnings of a headache.

Dean unclasped the saddlebags, which were lightly packed only with the spellbook and Sam’s clothes, and handed them to Garth to carry, since it was understood that at any moment, Dean himself might be compromised and it would not do for the book to fall into another’s hands at this critical juncture. He kept his sword and, Garth noted uneasily, unhitched his crossbow and quiver from their customary setting below the cantle of the saddle. He slung them across his back, taking care not to jostle his feathered accessory. Then they joined the seething throng that made its way like a thrusting snake through the arched doors of the cathedral, as though pulled along by the current of sound that throbbed in the air around them from the great bell overhead. 

Once inside, their senses were momentarily overwhelmed by the cavern-like dimness, the susurrating hush of many echoed whispers, and the sweet, smoky scent of incense. The crowd thinned as people moved out across the interior of the church, and Dean was able, by virtue of his height and air of authority, as well as the recognition of many of the populace, to force his way towards the front of the cathedral and the high altar where Garth glimpsed the tall, distinctive shape of a bishop’s mitre. He struggled along in the knight’s wake, keeping a hand upon his arm so as not to become separated by the jostling crowd, and hoped fervently that Dean’s purpose here was not simply to murder Alastair in cold blood.

As they made their way in fits and starts between the press of bodies, Garth heard a droning voice, presumably the bishop’s, beginning his sermon, or giving the crowd a taste of what was to come once the cathedral was fully packed. He caught only snatches of the monologue as he wasn’t really listening, intent on not losing sight of the brothers.

“... sent to test the faithful, so be not afraid, but lift your prayers to Heaven and put your trust in the Almighty…”

“... such are the perils of idolatry, and the heresy of witchcraft; but be it known that God will smite down all abominations and cast them into hellfire; even as he cleanses the souls of the righteous…”

When eventually they reached the transept and the great crossing which connected the four arms of the space of worship, Dean came to a sudden halt that was more than simply balking at the press and shove of bodies. Garth peered around him to see a line of men in armour and white cloaks with the insignia of the bishop at their breasts; and in the centre of the line, facing off squarely against Dean, was Fredric Lehner, captain of the bishop’s guard. He scowled, his features distorted by the marks of Sam’s claws which pulled his cheek into an ugly sneer.

“His Grace thought you might turn up, like a cockroach on a dungheap,” he jeered, and looked as though he might spit again, but thought better of it due to their hallowed location.

As though by magic, the crowds around them dispersed, though where they had found to distance themselves Garth could not begin to fathom. 

“It is a public ceremony,” Dean responded quietly, “open to all Christians of the city; you cannot stop me from attending.”

“Do you always go armed to a religious ceremony?” Fredric retorted, with a contemptuous tilt of his head.

“Do you?” Dean rejoined calmly. “As a Winchester, it is my right to bear arms to protect myself and my companions from… others who go armed,” he looked pointedly at the guardsman’s sword, which thrust prominently from beneath his cloak, gripped by a mailed fist.

“Be that as it may,” the guardsman grated, “nobody said anything about allowing livestock into the cathedral.” His emphasis of the collective noun dripped with scorn.

“I see no livestock here,” Dean’s voice was level, but so quiet Garth had to strain to hear him. “I have tethered my mount outside the walls, as is proper. There are none here but myself and my companion,” he indicated Garth with a wave of his hand, then added after a short pause, “... and my brother.”

“I see no ‘brother’ here,” Fredric mimicked, “unless you claim kinship with that… that blasphemous clump of feathers clinging to your neck.”

Dean stiffened, and his own hand slid to his sword hilt; the empty space around them widened, and the surrounding guards held themselves at the ready, but their captain gestured to them curtly to stand their ground.

“You know very well who and what he is,” the knight said, his voice icy with danger, “and who is answerable for the exigency. I have warned you before to guard your insults. We come here in all honour to demand restitution, and his place is by my side as always.”

“Aye,” sneered the other, his face turning dark with suffusion, “by your side, or under it; I can well imagine! Do you lie now even with the beasts of the field? I can see little difference in it, since you name him ‘brother’ either way. Or perhaps that would go easier the other way around?”

Garth stared back and forth between the men, thoroughly confused by the senseless implication, but it seemed to strike a nerve in Dean where the previous insults had only shored up his dignity. Where a moment ago his hand had mirrored Fredric’s on the pommel of his sword, suddenly it was in his hand, a burnished length of steel that shimmered softly as it caught some stray beam of light from the high lancet windows. A mesmerising pattern of whorls and ripples seemed to flow like water along the blade, and its edge was lined with silvery markings that meant nothing to Garth, but he knew no ordinary sword bore the like. It was a beautiful yet baneful thing, and as it flew from its sheath it seemed to whisper through the air before hanging, poised and deadly as a viper, ready to strike the captain down. 

The crowd around them gasped, then fell into an anticipatory silence. It occurred to Garth, somewhat wildly, that this might be the very sword Excalibur of legend, and Dean a knight of the Table Round, or even the ghost of King Arthur come to avenge the wrongdoings of the bishop and his pack of bullies.

“Garth,” Dean said steadily, never taking his eyes off Fredric, “would you take Sam from me, please? It seems I have to teach this impudent cur a lesson.”

Garth coaxed Sam, with some difficulty, onto his own arm, and the glove he had had the forethought to don when they arrived, since Sam seemed to have taken up residence on Dean’s shoulder. The bird clung tightly to the leather and bobbed up and down, opening his beak to hiss at the man confronting his brother, as Fredric drew his own sword in response.

“Keep that animal away from me,” the man snarled, “I have taken enough slights from his filthy claws.”

“But not yet enough from mine,” Dean responded coolly, and made a sudden lunge towards the guardsman. The next few minutes were chaos, as the crowd scattered, screaming and the two men went at it with a vengeance, steel ringing against steel. Garth pressed his back against a nearby pillar and, unthinkingly, placed a hand about the hawk’s breast to hold him still, but Sam did not attempt to bite him, only strained against his fingers as he seemed to watch the battle, feathers raised and beak agape. Garth could feel him quivering against his fingers, and the rapid tapping of his tiny heartbeat. He heard a voice raised over the din of weapons, high and reedy, scandalised: 

“How dare you, gentlemen, this is a holy house of God! Put up your swords at once; his Grace has a service to conduct and you are scaring the congregation!”

Glancing about him, Garth traced the indignant commands to a short, stout man with the tonsured hair and woolen robes of a priest, and presumed him a member of the cathedral clergy. He was red in the face and flapped his hands ineffectually, until Garth hissed at him, “Be done, you are scaring the bird!” and the man turned towards him with a start, jumped back, then turned and scuttled off towards the altar.

“My pardon, Sam,” Garth murmured, “and to God in Heaven, for that little lie; but your brother could do without the distraction.”

Suddenly, Dean had more to distract him, if he were not paying such close attention to his assailant; for without warning, the creature in Garth’s arms expanded like dough in an oven, exploding outwards, to a new chorus of oaths and screams even shriller with terror than the first. The transformation happened a great deal faster than before, or so it seemed to Garth, whose hands were full one moment of soft, warm feathers and the next, his whole person was overwhelmed with smooth skin and solid flesh and he was pushed backwards into the pillar with a pained exhalation as all the breath left his body at once.

“Sorry, sorry!” Sam murmured, frantically, stumbling back and reaching to pat Garth down and check that he was uninjured. Then, “What’s going on; there is fighting - Dean!” in a considerably louder voice, ending on an urgent cry.

Garth attempted to quiet him, pulling at an arm that felt like a tree trunk. “He is duelling with Captain Lehner,” he explained quickly, though Sam could surely see as much for himself, “and there is little you can do about it, for you are unarmed; and naked,” he realised belatedly, though it came as no surprise. “And anyway, it would not be at all chivalrous to join forces against him. In fact I think if you tried, the other guards would not hold back, and however skilled you both are as warriors, I do not think you could stand against so many.”

Sam seemed to heed the wisdom of his words, but hovered, his focus intent on the clashing blades, as Garth helped him to dress in shirt and breeches, doing most of the work while the knight watched his brother in helpless frustration.

“There is not time for this,” Sam moaned through clenched teeth, and he whirled, staring up at the great window of coloured glass at the western end of the nave. Nothing could be seen of the sun in this direction, but the sky was noticeably dark, as though a storm had gathered, and Garth realised that a lot of the light in the cathedral now came from flickering torches held in great bronze sconces high above their heads.

“Why does he fight,” Sam asked him urgently, “did Fredric draw steel to bar him from attending the bishop?”

“Ah, not exactly,” Garth admitted, wincing a little on Dean’s behalf. “Dean was the first to attack; but he was sorely provoked, and the guards were in a line against us, so I do not doubt they would have threatened, had we pressed our way forward.”

“Foolish; foolish!” Sam groaned, beating his fists against the pillar behind him and then clutching at his hair. “There is so little time, I do not know how long this may last; are we at the totality of the eclipse, do you know; have you seen?”

“The shadow has been growing for the past hour or more,” Garth hastened to inform him. “I think, from the light without, and the way you suddenly changed, that it must be so. Do you think this will hold only as long as the sun is entirely covered?”

“I do not know,” Sam cried, his voice tormented, “but if so, then we have but minutes; come! Have you the book? We must get to Alastair, and prevail upon him to reverse the spell. Only he can call off the captain and let Dean through.”

Sam sprang forwards, further into the church, and shouldered his way past two of Fredric’s guardsmen, who stood transfixed by the fight and did not seem to register his presence until it was too late. Garth stumbled after him, insignificant and ignored, and spared but a glance in passing for the expert swordsmanship displayed in the middle of the transept. Dean was clearly the more agile and skilful of the two, but the older man seemed to know his way around a blade and was armoured besides, which gave him the advantage. It was a close match, and Garth realised Sam’s urgency as he picked up his pace and followed him into the eastern end of the cathedral. 

The members of the clergy huddled like frightened sheep amid the polished wooden stalls to either side, but he had no thought to spare for them; for there ahead, standing at the altar rail and frowning down the length of the choir, was Alastair, the Bishop of Winchester. He was tall and gaunt with a sparse, trimmed beard and eyes that stared from his face like hot coals, raking the combatants with a glare that would have stricken them to stone, were will alone enough to wield such magic. He was robed and mitred as became his station, but something about his face sent chills along Garth’s spine and turned his stomach. It was clenched and twisted all out of proportion, as though some inner turmoil spasmed the otherwise noble features and made a mockery of their lineaments. It was not, Garth thought, the face of a man, but of some monster that merely wore such a face as a mask; and in its rage, the mask was slipping, and seemed like at any moment to burst open, revealing what, Garth did not dare to witness.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	13. Chapter 13

Rage surged through Dean like a fire of ice, burning and freezing his blood in equal measure. It wasn’t just because of the man’s sneering jibes; he didn’t expect others to understand, or to condone, the way he felt about his brother. But Fredric was exercising a level of hypocrisy that he could not tolerate; in short, the man was motivated almost purely by jealous spite. 

Not long before Alastair had unravelled their lives with his curse, Lehner had made… advances towards Sam, which he had vehemently rebuffed, and no further harm had come of it; but Dean had found out, and in short order made sure that the man no longer had a place in their father’s garrison. He was not about to sit and take insult from such a vile and treacherous worm. Besides that, he doubted whether Fredric and his men would have let Dean near the bishop; there was a reason for their being here, after all, armed and armoured within the hallowed halls of the sacrosanct; and he was also not about to tuck his tail between his legs and slink away, giving up the one opportunity they might have to set things right.

So he thrust and parried and feinted now, bringing all of his skill to bear upon his enemy. He considered himself at least Lehner’s equal in swordplay, and was the younger and fitter in body; but the captain, though slower, was sure and dogged in his determination, and his mail deflected several of Dean’s strokes that might otherwise have drawn blood. As they fought, a grin spread over his face, pulled by the scar into a savage leer, and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

When Sam transformed, and cried out, it was all Dean could do not to turn to him, to look upon the face and form of one he had missed so dearly for so long. His training held him in check however and he gritted his teeth and renewed the intensity of his attack. Now there was double the reason to put this man out of his way, for with Sam changed, they could confront Alastair together, with witnesses to what had just happened. He did not know how long it would last, and knew that it was now imperative that he get past the guard and approach the high altar where the bishop held sway.

“Thinking you’ll win past me to accuse his Grace?” Fredric said easily, meeting the viciousness of Dean’s resurgence with stolid calm. “If you ask me, the pair of you got better than you deserve, and you should accept your punishment and stay out of his way, instead of constantly nipping at his heels like spoiled and degenerate curs.”

“Nobody asked you,” Dean snarled back, underscoring his words with savage strokes of his blade. “It is not your place to judge or condemn, or to prevent us from seeking clemency. Back down now and I will let you live; but if you continue to get in my way, I will kill you, and I will not be sorry for it.”

“You can try,” the man said with a flash of amusement, parrying Dean’s assault without batting an eye, “but you won’t find it easy. We can dance here all day until everyone else goes home and don’t think I wouldn’t enjoy every minute of it, but I’m a reasonable man, so I won’t waste your time. I’ll let you in on a little secret: you are not the only men to have tasted the lord bishop’s particular talent.” He rolled the last word but one around his tongue with relish, enunciating each syllable with smug satisfaction.

Dean’s eyes widened and he stepped back, putting up his sword to block any advance by his opponent. “You’re under a spell, too? Let me guess. He has cast some sort of protection upon you, so that you are immune to the touch of iron, and if it did not look strange to your men, you would happily fight me in nothing but your shirt sleeves.”

“Got it in one!” Fredric crowed gleefully. “But that wouldn’t be fair now, would it, because at least the armour slows me down a little. So I’m happy to give you that advantage, since your weapon provides none at all; and if you stand down now and concede defeat, not only will I let you live, I’ll even let you walk out of the cathedral with your… brother,” his lips twisted as he said the word, so that he made of it a slur, and seemed to mean something else altogether, “and not press charges as I would have every right to for your wholly unjustified assault.”

Dean smiled grimly and did not let up his attack. “Nice try,” he growled, “and maybe you could fight me all afternoon, or maybe you’re just growing tired and looking to get me to back off before I wear you down…”

Fredric tsked and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he interrupted, “such insult to my character; I have no reason to lie to you! Truly, I would be happy to spar with you as long as you want, I seek only to give you a way out since you cannot hope to best me.”

“Well,” Dean answered, “so you may think, but there is one thing you have not taken into account.”

“And what, pray, would that be?” the captain asked silkily, pretending interest.

“You forget my calling,” Dean replied. “I am a hunter, not a soldier, and many of the things I hunt have also an immunity to steel. Which is why,” he said through gritted teeth, suddenly doubling his assault, “my brother had this sword enchanted by a witch,” he saw Fredric’s eyes widen and the man faltered infinitesimally as he parried, “and as yet I have found nothing that roams this earth between Heaven and Hell which it cannot kill,” he finished, and had the satisfaction of seeing the first glimmer of fear behind the man’s glare.

“Then I suppose you will just have to prove it over my dead body,” snarled the captain, to which Dean’s response was merely to narrow his eyes and throw back, “I will be glad to,” and their fight escalated in deadly earnest.

Whether it was that Dean had been wearing Fredric down, in truth, or that this new uncertainty caused him to falter, or perhaps that Dean now saw the opportunity to overcome his heretofore unruffled assailant, and was freshly motivated, he never knew for sure. It happened in the blink of an eye; one moment they were fighting, the next, he had knocked the captain’s sword flying from his hand, and brought his own blade to bear across his throat.

Dean pressed forward, breathing heavily, and Fredric, his eyes starting as the blood drained from his cheeks, dropped slowly to his knees and raised his hands, palms upward, in entreaty.

“Please,” he whispered against the pressure of the blade, “have mercy! You said you would let me live… I have not injured you… there is still time, look, your brother exhorts the bishop even now!”

He rolled his eyes to the right, in the direction of the altar, though he could not move his head to see; and Dean automatically turned to look, letting his hold on his sword slacken, never expecting treachery because he fought a man and not a monster, and he had won.

Fredric threw himself to the ground, beneath the sword, and surged up against Dean’s legs, inside his reach. Startled, Dean looked down to see the man grappling with his own dagger, which he kept in his belt, the silver knife which also came in handy for dispatching various creatures that spurned the bite of iron. He shouted, wordlessly, while drawing back his sword, and struggled vainly to be free of the man’s grasp; but the dagger was on his right, and with only his left arm free, his attempts were thwarted, and Fredric managed to tear the blade free and stabbed upwards with it, viciously, in a move that would have ripped apart Dean’s entrails. Only he pulled back with all his strength, kicking out with his foot to keep the man at bay, and stabbed downwards blindly with his sword.

The dagger clattered to the floor, Fredric’s body slumped forward and was still, and Dean stared at the man who now hung, impaled through the throat, upon his blade. He was very clearly dead, with a look of astonished terror frozen upon his face, as his blood ran down over the bright steel and washed Dean’s hands in crimson gore.

He turned, dazed, to see Lehner’s men standing in shock, not moving; yet; but surely they would leap upon him to avenge their fallen leader.

“You saw it,” he appealed to their common decency, looking from one man to another. “You saw him take my blade, when I had beaten him fairly and would have spared him! I had no choice, I was forced to defend myself…” 

He recognised one of the guards, a grizzled old fellow called Elkins, who had returned with their father from the Crusades. He and John had suffered something of a rift in their friendship after Alastair’s curse, when the knight took to drinking and was no longer the man he had been. Elkins must have sought employment where else he could, but Dean remembered him to be an upright man, stern and aloof but fair, and not one to jump to conclusions. Dean looked the man straight in the eye and repeated himself softly.

“You saw him take the dagger and move to strike, did you not? I had no choice; it was him or me.”

Elkins looked at him for a long moment, then nodded curtly, and his own grip on his sword relaxed and he let his hand fall away.

“Aye, tis as the lad says,” he said to his fellows. “We all saw it. The Captain had no business coming between him and his purpose here, and certainly none to serve him so unscrupulous a trick. I misliked our mission from the start; this here is the elder Winchester, heir to his father’s domain, and if he wants to walk into the cathedral in his own city and talk to the bishop, why should we stop him? You saw what happened, there by the pillar, when his own brother appeared where there had been only a hawk. I’ve had my tongue tied these past years, in deference to the man I once called friend, but I tell you now, there are foul misdeeds afoot, and his Grace is at the bottom of it all. I say we lay down our arms and let the man go to present his case. Surely he has that right, and Lehner here has paid a just price for his involvement in what should not concern honest men.”

It seemed Elkins commanded some respect among the troop, for at his words the other guards glanced among one another and then slowly, one by one, stood back and put up their swords. Elkins nodded to Dean, who straightened and turned, leaving his sword and the corpse of the fallen captain, and stepped forward into the choir, heedless of the cowering clergy within the stalls. His eyes sought out his brother, who stood there waiting for him, still human, and so tall; he drank in the sight of him, no longer the shy, gangly limbed youngster he had known but a man grown, muscular and dark and commanding, but still with that gentle, scholarly air that roused all Dean’s fiercely protective instincts.

Beside Sam stood Garth, holding the open spellbook, and beyond them Alastair, who stood behind the altar rail, noble and inviolable in his holy office. From their postures it seemed they had been caught in some standoff of communication while they watched the fight play out. As Dean stepped forward, the bishop turned his head to the younger Winchester and smiled; a thin, bitter acknowledgement; and beckoned with one crooked finger.

“It seems, then, that I have no choice,” he murmured in a guttural, lisping voice that put Dean in mind of a viper slithering on its belly. “Step up here and stand before the altar, let your brother come to join you, and I will perform the rites.”

Sam’s expression lightened and he turned a sweet and dazzling smile to Dean before walking forward to the low, carved rail and the man who waited for him; the man who had caused their family so much pain and misery. Dean felt a churning in his gut and his scalp prickled in warning. “Sammy, be careful..!” he called; but it was too late. 

As Sam drew abreast of the rail, bending his head in supplication, Alastair held his hand out in seeming benediction, and laid it on the young man’s tousled locks. Dean was expecting a spell, and so he was as surprised as everyone when the bishop dropped his arm, curling it like a snake about Sam’s neck, and brought up his other hand to hold a gleaming knife against his throat.

“Neither of you move so much as a finger,” Alastair said as calmly as though he were asking for the sacrament to be brought, “or I will slit him ear to ear.” He looked at Dean and his mirthless smile sent shivers along the knight’s spine like raking claws. “I would rather see your little brother bleed out on the floor of this church,” he went on conversationally, “than commit such blasphemy as to perform the rite he has requested. That will never happen as long as I am bishop of this diocese. So turn around, Winchester, and walk out of my cathedral, and I will let Sam go; and when the sun is free of the moon’s influence, all will return to the way it should be, and we can forget that this little… incident ever took place.”

Dean looked into his brother’s eyes; those beseeching, human eyes that swirled with all the colours of spring’s promise, brown earth and blue sky and green leaves; and recalled the heartfelt plea he had penned within the journal.

“No,” he said, his voice shaking, and he clenched his jaw, threw back his shoulders and glared. “No,” he repeated more firmly, “this stops here. Let my brother go; let us both go from your spell. We have suffered enough; it is time to end this.”

Alastair chuckled like water swirling down a drain. “You are in no position to make demands,” he said. “You can do nothing; you are nothing, and less than nothing; but even you would not dare to lift a finger against a bishop of the Holy Roman Church.”

“I would not be so sure of that, if I were you,” Dean answered in measured tones, and he reached behind him to unhook his crossbow.

“I have your brother,” the bishop hissed, “and I hold him as surety against your conduct. Walk away now and no more blood need be shed. I will not perform the ritual! You have ruined my service and frightened off my congregation, and I will not take any more of your unholy demands. So we stand here at a counterpoint, waiting for the heavens to be done with their little charade.”

“The eclipse runs its course,” Sam called out softly, his voice ragged and breathless from the press of the knife, “and we have a scant hour to seek our blessing elsewhere. Decide, Dean; decide now, and do not tarry. I trust you, brother; my life is in your hands.”

“Your brother speaks sense,” Alastair purred, “so listen well to him; you wish this to end, and it can, right now.”

But Dean heard quite another meaning than the one Alastair had taken from his brother’s words; Sam’s last outpouring of the heart still resonated, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was tired of this life, and no longer wished to go on if it meant never seeing Dean again in human form. He had to act, regardless of the risk, because Sam had begged him, and he never could deny his little brother anything. Slowly and methodically, he felt in his quiver for that one quarrel, the special arrow fletched in his beloved’s feathers and marked for Alastair’s demise. He drew it out and fitted it to his bow, and raised it towards the bishop. 

Alastair snarled and tugged Sam back against him, dragging him down against the altar rail, and there was very little of the bishop that could be discerned behind his captive; it would take a hand and eye of steel to make such a shot, and Alastair knew it.

“You would not dare,” he hissed, “at that distance you are more likely to hit your brother than me; and if you step forward so much as one pace, I will drive home the knife. Give it up, Winchester! Unless you are so lost to all propriety that you would play God with your brother’s very life. Go ahead, make the shot; you dare not, you are bluffing!”

But Sam knew his brother, even after their years of separation, and had absolute faith in his ability; and he whispered softly, “Do it, Dean; you can make the shot, I believe in you,” and the stone walls and pillars of the chancel magnified and echoed his voice so that his brother plainly heard him.

And Dean drew a steadying breath, called on God and the Archangel Michael within his head to guide his vengeance, took careful aim; and loosed the trigger. The quarrel flew as surely as a bolt from Heaven, flicking a crimson line as the edge of the fletching grazed Sam’s cheek, and sank between Alastair’s eyes with a hollow thud.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	14. Chapter 14

The bishop stood for a moment, rooted to the spot like a tree, Dean’s arrow sticking grotesquely from his forehead as the blood welled up and dripped down into his eyes. Sam wrenched himself from the slackened grasp and bounded forward away from the altar rail, then turned around to stare, and the cathedral was so silent that all heard the metallic clink as the knife dropped from Alastair’s nerveless fingers onto the stone flags. Then the bishop followed it, folding at the knees and sliding in a boneless pile to the floor, his eyes rolling up white in his head.

Distantly, as though it could not have any connection to them, the brothers heard the cathedral doors crash open and the stamping of many booted feet, as the city guard came storming in. They fanned out at the back of the church, swords drawn, but did not immediately attack. Dean stood still, staring towards the altar - and Sam - with an unreadable expression; his crossbow dangled at his side. He seemed unaware of the soldiers lining up behind him. Sam stared back, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape; but the stricken look was not for Dean’s actions. His eyes brimmed only with love for his brother, and a gathering sorrow. They stood still, facing one another, seeming to have no sense or thought to spare for anyone or anything else in the room; and although neither of them moved a muscle, it seemed to Garth as though their bodies strained, quivering like hounds pointing on a scent, desiring to run towards each other but not quite daring to believe it possible.

Finally, quite obviously enjoying the grand entrance he made, one lone figure dressed in black strode slowly through the doors and down the nave towards Dean and the body of the captain. He stopped a sword’s length away and put his hands on his hips, twirling back his sable cloak with a flourish. It was the Sheriff of Winchester, Fergus Crowley.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his cultured voice at once soft and sinister, the voice, Garth thought, of the fabled wolf in sheep’s clothing. “What have we here, boys? Open assault on the cathedral, bringing weapons into the holy house of God; threatening the bishop; armed combat between the pews? I like a bit of melodrama but this is taking things a little far, don’t you think?”

“He - he killed the bishop!” stammered one of the clerics in a high, strained voice. Garth couldn’t make out which one had spoken, they were all huddled together in fear behind the choir stalls, like sheep in their white woolen robes; but he rather thought it was the same man who had tried to interfere in the fight before.

“Dear me,” said the sheriff absently, nudging at the sprawled corpse with the pointed toe of one smartly booted foot. “And this poor fellow too, by the looks of it. You have been a busy boy, haven’t you Dean. What would your father say?”

“You can leave my father out of this,” Dean grated in a strained whisper, still not turning his head away from Sam.

Crowley shrugged. “As you wish; but not the brother, I think. Because if I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, this is all about your brother, isn’t it Dean?”

From where he stood, Garth could see Dean’s face as clearly as Sam’s. The man’s eyes seemed joined to his brother’s as by a tautly stretched thread, and only the tight line of his jaw and the twitching of the muscle in his cheek betrayed his alertness to their situation. There was a hushed silence, which Crowley seemed in no hurry to break, before Dean finally replied. This time, his voice was clear and firm, resounding off the stone walls in the rapt quiet of the audience as he said,

“It is always about Sam. There is nothing else that matters. I’m sorry, little hawk; I have failed you.”

“Don’t say that!” Sam cried, fiercely. “You tried, Dean; it wasn’t your fault that Alastair refused to be moved.”

Dean shrugged, and let his crossbow drop to the floor with a clatter. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” he murmured. “We’ve lost our chance; the curse will take hold again as soon as the eclipse is over, and after what I’ve done here, I doubt I’ll ever see you again, as man or hawk. It’s time to say goodbye, Sam; go back to our father, and try… try to forget me -”

“As if I ever could!” Sam interrupted, hotly, and Dean went on, with the ghost of a smile that was more a grimace,

“- or at least try to live your life, as much as possible, without me. Don’t let grief weigh down your wings, little hawk, dearest brother. I’ve caged you for too long, looking for a solution that could only be found in fairytales, and all I’ve brought us is this hollow vengeance. It’s time for you to put the shadow of the past behind you, and fly free.”

“No!” Sam shouted, his cry ringing in the carved and gilded rafters, his face darkened with despair. He gripped the altar rail behind him in a crushing grasp, so strong that it creaked in protest. “Crowley, I beg of you; I know you have to take Dean; but take me, as well! Let us be together, to the bitter end; and if you execute my brother, then I demand to die at his side. I am as much the guilty party in this, would have put my sword to the bishop’s throat for his duplicity had I only been armed. You can be very sure, sir, that if our situations had been reversed, I would not have hesitated to kill him myself to save Dean.”

“Boys, boys,” the sheriff remonstrated gently, shaking his head. “This is all very noble and tragic, I’m sure, and I commend your loyalty, I truly do; but does there need to be all this talk of sacrifice? It is beyond my station to stand in judgement at your trial; my job is to determine the extent of what, if any, crime has been committed, and then bring you before the king if - and only if! - I decide to arrest you.”

“He killed the bishop!” shouted the same voice as before, now stronger with righteous indignation.

“Yes, so I keep hearing,” replied the sheriff, in an irritated tone. “But it strikes me, from what I have heard so far, that it may not have been an entirely unwarranted attack..?” 

For a moment, it looked as though nobody was going to answer, and Garth seized his opportunity and leapt to the brothers’ defence.

“The bishop had a knife,” he called out, “and held it to Sam’s throat. He tricked him into coming close, by the altar rail, and seized him.”

“Tricked him, did he?” Crowley mused, thoughtfully stroking his neat, short beard. “And just how did he manage that, I wonder? Our Sammy may be something of a gentle giant but he’s far from stupid.”

Dean bridled visibly at the sheriff’s use of the diminutive name, but held his tongue.

“He asked for his blessing,” Garth said, shortly, reluctant to explain the whole rather unbelievable situation. “He’s the one who put the curse upon them in the first place, he was the only one who could remove it; but he played them false, and refused. He’s no bishop, sir sheriff; no holy man of God at any rate! He is a liar and a coward, and a practitioner of the black arts!”

“Ah yes,” Crowley responded smoothly, “the famous Winchester curse. Some inkling of it had come to my ears. Well, well. So they needed Alastair’s blessing to reverse the spell, did they? And the curmudgeon wouldn’t budge. What a pity. I can see why Dean shot him. I take it only his blessing would do..? The counter to come direct from the man who cursed them, etcetera, etcetera?”

Sam, who had been staring down at the bishop’s lifeless body, looked up sharply at this, and frowned.

“Well,” he said slowly, “in fact there is nothing in the spell to say the blessing had to come from Alastair. It is just that there’s no time; we’re here, now, as men for the moment, but once the shadow passes from the face of the sun, the curse will revert. There might be one other, if we could get to her in time, if she were willing to perform the ceremony… if you would be so good as to help us...”

“What sort of ceremony is required, exactly?” Crowley asked, off handedly, as he shook out and inspected the velvet cuff of his sleeve. Garth began to suspect that the sheriff knew a great deal more than he had let on, and was enjoying the discomfiture of the brothers as he drew out the details.

“It’s… well, it, it’s…” Sam’s cheeks grew red and he looked down at the floor, chagrined.

“They have to be married,” Garth called out, making a wild leap of faith and trusting to his instincts, and the huddle of clergy all crossed themselves and raised their eyes to the ceiling, muttering of sacrilege.

“I know,” he continued, “it is unusual; unprecedented, even; but those are the terms of the spell. The transformation was meant for lovers; it is very precise. They must be hand-fasted, bound together again in love and humility while both are human; and there is very little time remaining, because the eclipse only lasts a few hours from beginning to end, and I guess that it is already past the totality.”

“Hand-fasted, you say,” Crowley remarked, still sounding no more than curious, as though the scandal of the thing bore no weight with him at all. “I don’t suppose it has to be a Christian ceremony, then?”

“It does not!” Sam announced, coming back into the discussion with renewed fervour, as hope shone in his eyes and voice. “The spell speaks only of the ritual, and whoever may be competent to perform it. We must be bound, as Garth said, in perfect union, accepting one another body and soul and laying aside all trespasses. We hoped that the witch Rowena might oblige us, but we do not know where she went when you released her.”

“Well,” the sheriff drawled, looking as smug as a cat that has found the larder door unlatched, “it just so happens that Rowena is my own dear mother; and not just a witch but a druidess, in point of fact. She is holding court right now in a sacred grove just outside the city, in honour of the current solar… phenomenon. I expect it would take that oversized mare of yours scant minutes to reach the glade, and a ritual performed by a high priestess of the Green Lord and Lady might be at least as impressive, one could hope, as the benefaction of a corrupt bishop.”

“You will let us go to her?” Sam cried, while Garth gaped and stammered, “Rowena is your mother?” but it was Dean who finally tore his gaze from Sam, and turned to Crowley with suspicion to ask,

“Why do you do this for us, sir? Your pardon, but I think it not merely from the kindness of your heart.”

The sheriff shrugged expansively and smiled at Dean. “As I said, she is my mother; and your favour would go far with her, to smooth the way among… all this,” and he gestured vaguely around him to encompass the entire cathedral and what it represented. “It is… galling for one of her temperament to stay hidden in the shadows, and you have already removed the greatest obstacle to her ambition. Your family’s patronage, the concession to practice her religion freely… all that, for one little spell undone? I think she would be happy to oblige.”

Dean snorted. “Our favour for you, you mean, to smooth your way at court; do not try to tell me that the son is less ambitious than the mother, and I think you share little interest in this faith of hers.”

Crowley just grinned, while Sam hissed his brother’s name and rolled his eyes.

“Time is marching, gentlemen,” the sheriff announced after a pause of several moments. “What is it to be; the support of the Winchesters in return for this small ritual, or are you content to go your way and let your brother here resume his beak and feathers within the hour?”

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed again, sounding strangled, but he had no need to urge him.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Dean grumbled, waving his hand irritably. “You have us over a barrel, and my only question is how much you knew, how soon, and whether you could have made this offer yesterday and so prevented - all this,” he gestured now about him, to the bodies of the fallen. “But then,” he continued shrewdly, “Alastair would still have stood in your way, would he not?”

Crowley made him a short, sardonic bow. “Even so,” he concurred, “but then, he would have stood in yours also. I believe this to be a satisfactory turn of events for both parties; out with the old order and in with the new, just as my mother predicted.”

“Dean,” Sam grated warningly, “can we please move this along? I am sorry that you had to kill Alastair, and his captain, but they brought it on themselves, and now there is very little time,” he emphasised, “for us to make their deaths meaningful.”

“I am coming,” Dean responded, walking over to retrieve his sword, which he wiped on the dead man’s cloak. Crowley stood aside and held out his arm in a permissive flourish, then followed the Winchesters as they strode up the nave, looking neither to right nor left. Elkins and his fellow guards fell in behind Crowley as though circumstances had simply switched their allegiance. 

Garth trotted to catch up with the brothers, while stealing glances at the crowd around them. There were far fewer faces than before, so many had fled the cathedral in terror, but those who remained seemed quietly supportive of their young lords, and there was some scattered applause from the back of the congregation as they passed, and muted cries of “Winchester!” and “Justice!” He was near enough to hear when Dean muttered in an aside to Sam, “I am not sorry; especially not for Alastair. I have dreamed of this day for years. I just hate to feel that we have been manipulated, and that Crowley is a slippery fish.”

“We will deal with that as the need arises,” Sam murmured back to him. “Better Crowley and Rowena’s shackles, than Alastair’s; we are free of him at last, and soon his magic, and I too am glad that he is dead,” he admitted fiercely. Garth noticed that they walked very close together, and Sam’s head was bowed so as to be almost touching his brother.

When they came out of the cathedral, Garth glanced instinctually at the sun, to see that the shadow had drifted to the opposite edge and now the horns, or the jaws of the snake, were reversed. He handed the book of spells to the younger knight while Dean removed Jessamyn’s blindfold and quickly checked her over, then urged Sam to mount up behind him, where the young man wrapped his long arms about his brother’s waist to hold on.

As he wheeled the horse about, Dean spared a glance for Garth. “She is strong,” he called over, “but not enough to take three; especially not with how my brother has grown. ‘Little’ he is no more! Crowley, would you bring him with you? Be careful, he is our friend and witness.”

With that, he spurred the mare into a canter, her hooves ringing across the cobbled square, as Crowley went to take the reins of his own rawboned chestnut, held ready by one of his men.

“You there,” the sheriff indicated to the white cloaked former guardsmen of the bishop, “you have some tidying up to do. You can report to me later, when I return from this little excursion. And you,” he now directed the captain of his own guards, “stay here and ensure there is no further unrest within the city. I will not be gone above an hour. Now,” he turned to Garth with an oily smile and an exaggerated gesture, “shall we?” And he helped him onto his horse, though Garth forebore from holding quite so close as Sam had clung to Dean.

With a brisk chirrup and a kick of the sheriff’s heels, they were away, cantering after the Winchesters as they raced the retreating shadow of the moon.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



	15. Chapter 15

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50062991956/in/album-72157714923289397/)

As Baby put forth all her might to bring them outside the city, scattering townsfolk with her thunderous charge, Dean’s whole focus was upon the strong arms encircling him and the broad chest pressed up against his back, the heat of him felt strongly even through the leather of his jerkin. Sammy, this is Sammy, he kept reminding himself, in a daze; he had his little brother back! But not for long, if they did not hurry; he wished he had time to stop and look at him properly, this sturdy giant of a man, the sapling matured into an oak tree; clearly, spending half his time as a hawk had done nothing to stunt Sam’s growth!

He knew the grove of which Rowena had spoken, or rather, the tree, which had a reputation among the townsfolk of mystical power. Lovers went to tie ribbons on its branches at the Beltane eve, and mothers would entreat it for the health of their ailing children. It was an ancient oak, as wide around as four men, but split down the middle by some calamity, a lightning blast as legend had it. Half of the tree was wizened and dead, but some branches on the other side clung tenaciously to life. Tradition had it that to pass through the split in the great, cracked trunk would confer health, long life and fertility, and the bark around the edges of the wound was rubbed smooth and polished by the touch of many hands as they gripped it to climb through. He had never given it much consideration; the gods’ tree, it was called, and that was simply its name, and its rituals nothing but the quirky superstitions of the common folk. But now, as they rode pell-mell against the waning eclipse, he wondered. Crowley had called Rowena a druidess, not merely a witch then but a religious leader of some power and standing in an ancient faith as old as, or even older than, the tree itself. He was beginning to realise he had underestimated her, and to wonder just how much their situation coincided with her plans, or if in fact her auspices wove around them as closely as the spell. Not that there was anything to be done about it!

The grove was not far, but Baby was beginning to tire, her flanks heaving and shiny with sweat, by the time she had carried her unaccustomed double load to its borders. Dean sprang from the saddle, as Sam dismounted more slowly, and spared a moment to pat the mare’s neck and listen for wind, and thank her for her loyalty. She seemed fine, snuffling and lipping at his collar, and he looped her reins loosely about a tree branch, giving her room to duck her head and graze.

“Don’t worry my girl,” he whispered in her twitching ear, “on the way back we will walk alongside you; or there will be only one to carry, for the hawk is no weight at all.” But he hoped devoutly that he would never see the bird again.

He turned to appraise Sam briefly and could not keep the smile of wonder and appreciation from his lips. “You have grown big, little hawk!” he told him. Sam said nothing, but smiled shyly and ducked his head, so that his hair flopped over his eyes, and there was the awkward, and adorable little brother he had known.

“Not long now,” Dean said softly, and reached hesitantly to touch the back of one big hand. After a moment, Sam turned his palm around and curled his fingers into Dean’s, and they made their way together through the burgeoning undergrowth among the lesser trees which ringed the sacred glade.

They came out into a grassy clearing, thronged with the people who had heeded Rowena’s summons, and headed for the great tree which stood alone, gnarled and bent, in the centre of the meadow. The branches on one side were just beginning to unfurl their leaves, as though spring had brought a crown of green to adorn its hoary head, and the shadowed sun gleamed between the topmost twigs. Rowena was there, standing tall and slender beneath the thickest branch, in her green kirtle and with her red hair flaming. She too wore a crown, a diadem of silver fashioned into the upward-pointing horns of a crescent moon, and in each hand she bore the antlers of a stag, seven tines to each side.

“Winchesters!” she cried, and raised her arms, and the antlers, in welcome. “To what do I owe this signal honour?”

“I think you know,” replied Sam, and he went down on one knee before her, offering her the book.

Rowena’s lips twitched and she took it from him with regal grace; her nails, Dean noted, were long and pointed, almost as sharp as claws.

“My Book of Shadows!” she said, feigning surprise most artfully. “That scoundrel Alastair stole it, oh; many a year ago! And now you bring it back to me, on the very day and at the very hour I attend my Lord and Lady. Is that not the wonder of prophecy!” And she laughed merrily, and winked at Dean, who wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed by her theatrics.

“If it is yours,” he said, not doubting it for a moment, “then you will know a certain spell within, which Alastair has cast on us; a spell of transformation. If you would be so obliging,” he briefly gritted his teeth, “to reverse the spell, we would be in your debt. I think you will find us… more than amply grateful.”

“The gratitude of the Winchesters!” she replied. “Oh aye, that would be a thing worth having, indeed.” He could not tell if she was laughing at him or not, but a quick glance at the horned sun, and Sam’s earnest expression, decided for him for once that discretion was the better part of valour.

“So tell me,” the witch now murmured, conspiratorially, “this spell; you’re aware of what it means, and what you must do to counter it?”

They looked at her as one together, puzzled and mildly alarmed.

“Och, it’s nothing to worry your bonny heads about,” she said, “just that it is a very particular kind of spell, and of course I don’t know what sort of unintended effects it might have had in the hands of that… apostate,” her mouth pursed as though chewing on something bitter, “but in the normal course of witchcraft, it was designed to enchant, ah… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but lovers.”

“We know,” said Sam, quietly but forcefully. He blushed, but did not glance away.

“I see,” said Rowena, and blinked slowly and lazily, like a cat. “Then I suppose you also know that the ritual of unbinding requires you to renew your vows of fidelity, to give yourselves over to one another body and soul, to love each other completely, unreservedly and exclusively forevermore..?” She paused, waiting for their response.

“Yes, we know,” said Dean. “Is there a problem?”

“Och no,” said Rowena blithely, “no problem at all, as long as you’re both aware that it will only work if you mean it. This is no case of lip service, boys; you stand in the presence of the Old Gods, at a grand conjunction of the elements, and your vows really matter.”

“You can leave that part to us,” Dean grated. “Just get on with the ceremony already. Please?”

She laughed again. “Very well then,” she said. “If you would kneel beside your brother, and face each other… that’s right… and hold hands… yes, perfect. Now.”

She turned to address the crowd gathered in the little wooded glade and held her antlers aloft. Dean felt his cheeks grow hot and cursed silently as he realised that this would be a rather public ceremony; not that it wouldn’t have been just as public in the cathedral, but he suspected Rowena was going to speak in English, rather than Latin, for the sheer performance of it.

“Behold, ye merry gathering!” she intoned. He had been right. He looked into Sam’s eyes, warm and multihued, and took courage from the sincerity and happiness that shone back. As though guessing Dean’s skittishness, Sam pressed his fingers gently; his hands folding around Dean’s as a man’s might encompass a girl’s, he was so large. It was a strange feeling but, Dean thought, not at all unpleasant, and something he could grow used to.

The witch - or druidess, he supposed he should think of her - was continuing to speak.

“We have the privilege this day,” she said, “of releasing these two from bondage, and reuniting the sundered souls of those whose only crime was to love one another. Now, under the gaze of the Lord and Lady as they tread the last steps of their dance, I will witness their vows as they commit to one another, and so repeal the spell.”

The crowd murmured, enthralled.

“Do you have the bond?” she queried them, in a more normal tone of voice. At Dean’s panicked look and Sam’s utter blankness, she tossed the mane of her hair. “Och no,” she scoffed, “it doesnae have to be a ring or anything; just a belt, or a scrap of cloth will do, something long enough to wind around your wrists. I could use mine, but it would suit the magic better to belong to one of you.”

“I have this,” Dean said suddenly, digging at his belt to produce the torn piece of hessian with which he had tied Sam two days before. He had stuffed it there, winding it around the leather, and forgotten about it until now. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he shrugged. “It should be a silken cord, not the rough jesses of a captive hawk, but I put it on you to keep you safe and I think the magic might approve…”

Rowena seemed to agree, as she took the bit of sacking from him with a soft exclamation, and Sam smiled back at him, not at all put out. “Whatever my form,” he said quietly, “my heart has always belonged to you, so it makes a certain kind of sense to bind us both now with what you used to bind the hawk.”

Rowena laid the scrap of material over both pairs of clasped hands, then stood straight and placed one each of her racks of antlers upon their shoulders. 

“Do you, Samuel Winchester,” she asked formally, “forgive Dean all his transgressions against you, and take him back into your heart, to be united with you mind, body and soul, in the loving eyes of our Lord and Lady of the wild green world?”

“Of course,” Sam smiled widely and warmly at his brother, “there is nothing to forgive; and he never left my heart.”

Rowena then turned to Dean and repeated the formula.

“Always,” Dean said with utmost sincerity and gladness, “and forever.”

Rowena bent and wound the ends of the frayed and scratchy fabric around and under their wrists, binding them loosely together.

“Then I pronounce you soulmates,” she proclaimed, “and the spell of transformation is hereby revoked!” 

The crowd erupted in cheers, and under cover of the noise, Rowena said something in a language neither of them had ever heard before. The loops of sacking about their wrists pulled suddenly, tightening of their own accord, and looking down, Dean saw the material glow with a pale, blue light as it shimmered, growing as translucent as a spiderweb, before it sank down into their skin, and was gone. His wrists tingled vaguely where it had lain, as though touched by ice, but in moments the sensation vanished.

“There!” said Rowena, lightly. “It is done! The Lord and Lady approve your union, and you are free.”

Dean knelt still for a moment, drinking in the heady feeling of salvation, then looked up at her and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, as sincerely as he had voiced his vow to his brother. “You have the gratitude of the house of Winchester for all time.”

Rowena smiled strangely, nodded in return, and said, “It isn’t technically a part of the ritual, but are you two boys going to kiss, now? You know, just to complete the ceremony.” And she winked, and walked away to greet the members of the gathered crowd.

Dean realised that he and Sam were still holding hands, and that he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to let go. It had been so long, four long and bitter years, since he had touched his brother and not felt feathers, and suddenly, unaccountably, he felt shy. Although they had just exchanged the vows of matrimony, this Sam before him was a man grown, dear to him and yet a virtual stranger, and perhaps things had changed between them, since they had rolled together in the sweet scented hay as boys..?

The silence stretched awkwardly between them as he hesitated, unsure of how to ask.

And Sam smiled at him, so knowingly and so tender, and said, “Stop thinking, little wolf, and kiss me.”

So he did.

* * * * * * *

And at the edge of the happy crowd, where Crowley and Garth had stood to watch the ceremony, arriving not long after the brothers themselves, Garth gaped at the kiss and turned to the sheriff. He stammered, “Do… do you think they will actually consummate the marriage?” in a whisper that was half scandalised and half in awe.

Crowley smirked, never taking his eyes off the kneeling men, and said, “Oh I shouldn’t think there is any question about that. But if you find you haven’t the stomach for such an unconventional household, you can always come and work for me.”

“No…” Garth answered him slowly, considering as he watched the brothers reunited, heedless of the world and all others around them; together at last as they were always meant to be. “No, I thank you, but that’s all right. I would like to venture on with them aways, and see how things go. Just to be sure they stay well.”

He looked up over the branches of the sacred oak, just in time to see the last tiny sliver of the moon slip free of the sun, whose radiant disc shone down in all its unfettered glory; and below it, the brothers rose to their feet and walked over to join them, smiling joyously, arm in arm… and remained completely human.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/fledhyris/50063246342/in/album-72157714923289397/)  



End file.
